


Write Me Love Notes in Glitter Glue

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Series: Write Me Love Notes in Glitter Glue [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Kindergarten & Pre-school, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Parents, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Sex, Anthropocentrism, Canonical Character Death (Past), F/F, F/M, Good Peter, Humor, Kid Fic, M/M, Manhandling, Masturbation, Parenthood, Private School, References to Knotting, Rimming, Romance, Sexting, Single Parent Stiles Stilinski, Sinister Fluff, Slow Burn, Speciesism, Systemic Oppression, Teacher Peter Hale, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Discrimination
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-21 03:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 170,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3675837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The task of the modern educator is not to cut down jungles, but to irrigate deserts.</i>
</p><p>Stiles is a single dad with two kids, and a real contempt for the status quo.  Peter is a kindergarten teacher with an army of loyal little minions, and maybe a few ulterior motives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet Stiles, Single Dad

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a wonderful tumblr post from AnAbundanceOfStilinskis, asking about SingleDad!Stiles and ElementaryTeacher!Peter.
> 
> And since I have no self-control, here we are.

“How did I let this happen?” Stiles fingers tapped a quick rhythm against the side of his glass, sending ripples through the last couple mouthfuls of beer. He’d already gnawed his thumbnail down to a ragged edge before Lydia had swatted him. “Seriously, how is it December, and I’ve done dick all? Did I slip into a coma?”

“I think I feel one coming on now,” Jackson said, partially muffled behind his own beer. He was splayed out across half their booth, all loose entitled limbs and exaggerated boredom, while Lydia perched primly beside him, luminous in the warm ambiance of the bar.

Stiles hunched over further in his seat, inches from banging his forehead against the tabletop. He didn’t even have the energy to call Jackson a prick, but he did make a mental note to send Isaac home from the kids’ next playdate with pockets stuffed full of glitter. Add a bit of flair to Jackson’s wardrobe, hopefully right before a big court date.

“I reminded you months ago.” Lydia sounded _slightly_ more sympathetic than her dickbag, soon-to-be-glitterbombed husband, but not much. Or maybe it was schadenfreude, rather than sympathy; sometimes it was hard to tell with her. “We invited you on school tours. You kept putting it off.”

Stiles’ life was a complete disaster, and he needed new friends.

“This is a disaster.” Ignoring the voice in his head shrieking about germs, Stiles laid his cheek on the table. It wasn’t quite as gross as he’d anticipated; it smelled more like lemon cleaner than spilled beer, and it wasn’t sticky. Being strong-armed into developing better taste in bars was one of the few benefits of regularly hanging out with Jackson. “I need new friends. You guys suck.”

“Oh, honestly— Jackson, you have some of those brochures in your case, don’t you?”

“Yeah, babe.” There was a shuffling, a pair of sharp clicks, but Stiles didn’t bother to open his eyes until he was being smacked hard with a rolled up bundle of papers.

“Hey, _hey_ —” he said, trying and failing to fend off Lydia’s pitiless assault on his skull. Finally, he dragged himself back up into to a slouch, catching the papers she all but threw at him before she could spill what was left of his beer. “This _bad dog_ thing you’re doing right now is giving me images I never wanted about your sex life— Hey, _ouch_! Shit, okay, fine, I’m up. Jesus.”

Unrolling the thick stack of glossy brochures, flattening them on the table, Stiles swallowed back the initial wave of panic that soured the back of his tongue. Any school called an _Academy_ was going to be way out of his price range.

This wasn’t the sort of thing Stiles did— this off the cuff, last minute scramble. Sure, he could be a bit impulsive, but for the most part he was a planner. Long term strategy, with at least five levels of contingency, was pretty much standard for big decisions in the Stilinski house.

Day-to-day never got stale; it wasn’t military strict, or anything like that. Stiles was always happy to roll with an impromptu afternoon at the zoo, turning the living room into a pillow fort, or a few months of matching undercuts when the kids decided they wanted cool hair, but they were also the sort of family with a chore-board and weekly dinner schedule on the fridge. He had an entire closet stuffed full of parenting books, and a dozen binders he’d compiled over the last five years, spanning everything from prenatal care, all the way up to potential college stuff.

He had no idea if anyone was ever actually prepared to be a parent, but he’d outright refused to just wing it and hope for the best, no matter how often certain people (mostly his dad) encouraged him to _just relax_. There were certain fuckups in his own life he could accept, but he would not risk fucking up his kids’ lives because he didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

Ten years ago, if someone had told Stiles that by the ripe of age of twenty-six he’d be tearing his hair out about his kids starting kindergarten, he’d have laughed hard enough to sprain something.

“Okay, yeah.” A collage of aggressively happy faces smiled up at him from the brochure covers, all bright eyes and brighter teeth. “Shit. I should have been looking at these in June. I should have been looking at these when they were still in diapers, fuck, _fuck_. Just… okay. Okay.”

He took a breath, and slid a pair of random booklets out from the middle of the pile. “First, are any of these human-friendly? And have you decided where you’re sending Isaac yet?”

Technically, the first question was more important. Somehow, the second question was harder to ask, nearly catching in Stiles’ throat. The twins might have basically adopted the cherub-faced little hellion as their brother from another mother, but there wasn’t a chance in hell that Isaac Martin-Whittemore was going to be enrolled in anything but the elementary equivalent of the Ivy League.

In a perfect world, Stiles would have moved heaven and earth to make sure his kids got the same, but there were only so many miracles he could manage between his dad’s salary and his own paycheques. Beyond his regular hours at the bookstore, Stiles already juggled more web development and programming clients than he probably should have. The late nights and long hours were only bearable because his schedule was flexible enough to make plenty of time for the kids.

Mainlining caffeine helped, and generous application of his Adderall helped even more, but that was only if he was in a real lurch. He’d weaned off the latter more and more over the last few years, after a particularly scary hospital visit when the twins were toddlers.

There might have been some really inappropriate shouting in the middle of the hospital that day, along with some alarming beeping coming from the machines clustered around Stiles’ bed, but he and his dad had eventually come to a truce. The deal was pretty simple: neither of them were allowed to have a heart attack before the twins graduated high school. Now, Stiles rarely took more than his normal dose of meds, just enough to keep his head on straight, and John ate his vegetables and laid off the cheeseburgers with minimal grumbling. It was a delicate balance, but so far, it had been working out alright.

With two decent enough salaries, plus Stiles freelance work, they weren’t destitute by any stretch of the imagination. It was in moments like this, however, when Stiles was starkly reminded that the adage about money not buying happiness was sometimes complete bullshit.

“Let me see.” Lydia held out one perfectly manicured hand, and Stiles slid the brochures back over. She gave the papers a quick riffle, sorting them into two neat stacks. It wasn’t even slightly surprising that one ended up significantly smaller than the other.

“Human-friendly,” Lydia said, pushing the shorter pile back towards Stiles. Only three brochures, out of about two dozen total; fully integrated schools were still rare, but things were getting better. A decade ago, there probably wouldn’t have been a single school willing to take both humans and shifters.

There still wouldn’t be a public elementary school that would accept Malia and Scott in the same class, unless Stiles wanted to pick up sticks and move to Canada or something. It was either shell out the cash for private school, or accept his babies being shuffled into segregated classes until they hit high school.

“I’m not splitting up my kids,” Stiles said, for probably the millionth time since his baby girl had sneezed and popped her claws for the first time at four months old. The closest Scotty had ever come to that was the time the poor little dude had tried to poop so hard he’d popped a hernia in his bellybutton.

Stiles picked up the first pamphlet, which was relatively plain compared to most of the others: a cobalt blue cover, without any photos, and _Fáelán Academy, K-6, Beacon Hills California,_ printed halfway down. The script was neat white copperplate calligraphy, with a vaguely familiar triple spiral shape embossed in glossy black underneath.

The unembellished look of the brochure might have given him some measure of hope, if it hadn’t been Lydia and Jackson who’d given it to him. There was no chance in hell they’d been considering the type of school that worried about pinching pennies and saving on printing costs down at the copy shop. God, even the name looked painfully pretentious. _Fáelán Academy._

Sure enough, when Stiles flicked the pamphlet open, there were the lush, full-colour photographs he'd expected, along with information about their facilities, contact details, all the usual. The address wasn’t too far from his house, maybe a fifteen minute drive, but Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually driven out that way. It was farther away from the city centre, towards the Wildlife Preserve, but still comfortably within city limits.

“That’s the one we’re leaning towards.” Lydia’s voice startled him out of his thoughts, and Stiles glanced up at her, prompting further explanation with a waggle of the brochure.

“They get excellent reviews,” she continued, pulling her phone out of her purse and tapping at the screen as she spoke. “A fairly new school, but the initial academic results are far above average.  Extensive music and arts programming, fully integrated classes, humans and shifters… here, their website.”

Stiles took the phone when Lydia passed it over, and winced a bit at the clunky mobile layout as he clicked through a few links, trying to find his way around. They could afford fancy embossed brochures, and _holy hell_ that looked like a touch screen blackboard in that classroom, but they couldn’t have a website with responsive design. Fantastic.

“We’re still deciding,” Jackson decided to add, eyeballing the brochure still in Stiles’ hand. “But, yeah, it seems like a decent school.”

“It seems brilliant,” Lydia said, sitting back in her seat and crossing her arms. “Jackson’s parents are pushing for a shifter school. Somewhere _better established_.”

The air quotes were easy enough to hear, even if she didn’t deign to actually twitch a single finger. Jackson’s mouth pinched, but the annoyance didn’t seem directed at Lydia. Smart man.

“Shifter school?” Setting the Fáelán brochure down, already feeling a weird sort of reluctance and more than a little twist of shame in the pit of his stomach, Stiles let his fingers play over the other two choices spread out before him. The Stilinskis didn’t have the sort of coin that got touch screen blackboards and above average academic scores. “I mean, that’s totally your call, but you know the kind of dicks that come out of shifter schools, right? Pompous fuckers, bad manners, terrible hair. That’s like the trifecta of douchebag, right there.”

Of course that earned a growl from Jackson, a dangerous flash of golden eyes, and Stiles didn’t bother stifling his laugh. Malia was scarier when she got in a pout about having a bath.

 

* * *

 

Offering a final wave as the sleek silver Porsche SUV pulled away, Stiles trotted up the driveway, chewing the last of his mint as he cleared the porch. He’d only had two beer, but he didn’t like his breath to be gross when he gave his babies their goodnight snuggles.

It was late enough that he didn’t call out when he stepped inside, just kicked off his sneakers and stripped out of his coat. There were only a few lights turned on low here and there, and the television was murmuring quietly when Stiles made his way into the living room, stepping around the obstacle course of lego littering the carpet. No signs of life there, or in the kitchen, but a poke around the dishwasher proved that his dad had actually heated up the chicken and broccoli casserole Stiles left for them, instead of ordering takeout. Miracles did happen.

Popping in a detergent tab, Stiles turned the dishwasher on before grabbing himself a coke and an apple from the fridge, and a bag of fritos from the high cupboard where he hid his snacks from greedy little fingers. A couple more hours of work before he crashed for the night would mean less to worry about tomorrow, and more leisurely time for Saturday morning cartoons with his spawn.

Dropping his snack off in his room (if the kids didn’t see the fritos, they didn’t whine about the fritos, and the same was true for his dad), Stiles tiptoed down the hall, pausing just outside the kids’ door, staying out of sight. He could hear his dad, though at the moment, John had dropped his voice to a deep, gruff growl.

“ _Maybe you think we have regular meal-times_ ,” John rasped, and Stiles pressed his knuckles against his smile. “ _But we don't. We just eat whenever we're feeling hungry_ , said the fifth tiger.”

“ _And we're very hungry right now_.” It wasn’t just his dad on story duty; it seemed Melissa had been roped in too. Her tiger voice wasn’t as deep, but it still had a distinct, gravelly purr. “ _In fact, I can hardly wait,_ said the sixth.”

“ _I can't wait!_ said the seventh tiger,” John continued on. “And then all the tigers said together in a loud roar—”

Stiles knew _My Father’s Dragon_ inside out and backwards— he’d been the first test audience of John Stilinski’s tiger growl more than twenty years ago, as well as Claudia Stilinski’s dragon impression. He knew exactly what was coming next, and he slipped into the room just in time to roar the next boisterous line along with the rest of them:

“ _Let's begin right now!_ ”

“Jesus—” his dad started to curse, before catching himself, glaring at Stiles’ sudden appearance. The kids weren’t nearly as surprised as their grandpa, but they squealed anyway, sitting up from their tangle together across Malia’s bed.

“Dad!” Scott hollered, while in the same breath, Malia shouted: “I lost a tooth!”

“Inside voices,” Stiles chided, smiling at Melissa and cocking his chin towards his dad. “Hey, Mel. These three behave themselves tonight?”

“Good as gold,” Melissa said, perched on the end of Malia’s bed with her legs folded and her hair pinned up loose and messy. She looked comfortable, totally at ease with his kids, and she made his dad light up like he hadn’t seen in way too long. Stiles would never, ever wish sickness on his own kids, but there was some kind of weird silver lining in the fact that Scotty had always been accident prone and wheezy. There had been a few too many trips to the hospital over the years, but at the end of the day, Scott was alright, and they all really liked Melissa Delgado.

Scott and Malia mostly called her Mel, but Stiles had a strong feeling that one day, his kids were going to drop the _Nana_ bomb completely out of the blue (Claudia, though they’d never had the chance to meet her, would always be Grandma). He just hoped he had his cell on hand to record his dad’s ensuing manly flood of tears, which was absolutely guaranteed.

“We’ll finish this up next time,” John said, closing the book, and the kids didn’t argue. Even if it was a favourite, they’d heard it before, and they hadn’t seen their dad since breakfast. Stiles could see them buzzing with excitement to tell him about their day.

“Thanks, Pops.” He gave his dad’s shoulder a squeeze, even as he clambered over to sprawl across his wriggling kids, stretching his arms wide and pinning them in the mess of blankets.  "C’mere, peanuts. I’m feeling a distinct lack of snuggles in my life right now, what’s up with that, huh?”

Having one shifter kid in a family otherwise entirely human had meant a buttload of research, and some extra growing pains Stiles hadn’t exactly expected, but the good far outweighed any challenges. Malia’s need for physical affection was definitely not a hardship. He loved hugging his kids, possibly more than he loved anything else on the planet.

Flopping onto his back, Stiles wrapped one arm around each kid, craning down to snuffle at their soft hair when both of them buried their faces in the sides of his neck. Malia was the only one who could actually benefit from the full scent-marking experience, but Scott had developed the habit along with his sister.

“Okay,” Stiles said, twiddling a wave at his dad and Melissa as the pair of them snuck out of the room. “Stop me if I’m wrong here, but did somebody say something about a tooth?”

“Me!” Malia’s chin was a bony little knife jabbing into his sternum when her head snapped up to grin up at him, and yep, there was a gap. One of her bottom teeth in the front, though Stiles could already see a tiny nub of pearly white peeking out of the perfectly healed, pink gums when he reached out and gently pushed her lip down with his thumb.

Scott was either going to be totally thrilled, or totally brokenhearted when he started losing his too, and discovered the bloody sockets he’d have left behind for a little while. It would help Scotty’s mood if his sister thought it was gross but still cool, which luckily enough was Malia’s usual reaction to reasonably gory things; Stiles had been assured that was perfectly normal behaviour for shifter kids. Hell, a bit of a fascination with gory stuff was perfectly normal for some human kids too. As long as neither of them started dragging home dead animals and leaving them on the porch, everything was great.

“Well, would you look at that.” It was patently unfair that these kids could somehow get more adorable, but Malia’s gap-toothed smile was absolutely decimating his heart. Stiles prayed that they didn’t realise his self-control was totally shot, because he didn’t currently have an ounce of stern-dad left in his reserves. In that moment, if they asked for a truckload of candy each, or a pony, or a trip to Disney, he was fucked.

“What about your puppy teeth,” he asked, scratching his free hand over Scotty’s back as the kid burrowed under the edge of Stiles’ hoodie. “All present and accounted for?”

Big brown eyes blinked, brightening to warm gold, as Malia’s baby teeth grew into a mouthful of baby fangs. Stiles hadn’t remembered if her shifted fangs were supposed to drop out separately from her blunt teeth or not. The gap was still there, though, surrounded by a row of viciously sharp little needles. Optimistically, he’d expected a few more months, maybe a year of peace before he had to worry about his kids teething again; they’d both been miserable the last time.

“Right on, Princess Lia. That’s awesome.” Lolling his head over to the right, Stiles peered down at the bundle of little boy curled up tight against his ribs. “Any bits fall off you today that I should know about, Scotty?”

“Nope.” Thankfully, Scott didn’t sound especially disappointed by that development. “But I got ice cream after dinner too, because that’s fair.”

“Seems legit,” Stiles agreed, letting Malia gnaw softly on his hand with her human teeth. “Good day at preschool?”

“I climbed a tree,” Scott said, making Stiles’ stomach clench sharply even as he fought with his pulse to stay calm. If it was a herculean trial to find fully integrated elementary schools, it was actually impossible to find blended preschools, at least within driving distance of Beacon Hills. Stiles had ended up literally begging a small shifter program to take Scott too, and they’d only agreed after he’d signed nine miles of consent forms, risk acceptances, and waivers of liability. He’d scoped the place out, of course, and he felt totally safe leaving both his kids there for a few hours, five days a week, but shifter kids were made of sturdier stuff than his boy. There was always a chance of accident, though Malia was just as likely to help keep her brother safe as she was to egg him on.

“I climbed higher,” Malia added, thus proving Stiles’ previous thought. “Scott didn’t fall, though.”

Oh, Jesus god.

“No? Did _you_ fall, princess?”

Malia’s lips pursed, totally unimpressed with her old man. “Well, _yeah_.”

Scott’s head popped fully out from under Stiles’ hoodie, making his dark hair stand up in staticky curls. Much like his sister, he was suddenly levelling Stiles with a look of pure, unadulterated _duh_. “That’s how she lost her tooth, Dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a pretty good chance that rating's gonna change before we're through, because the world is brighter with abundant steter sex, but no promises.


	2. School Tours & Mr. Hale

Stiles’ cell phone started blaring the chorus of _Rebel Girl_ on Sunday afternoon, and he left the kids with their lumpy clay monstrosities, wiping his hands on his sweatpants before answering the call.

“My queen,” he greeted, then held out the cell just long enough for the kids to call out a distracted _Hi Aunt Lydia,_ without even looking up from their sculpting. He pressed the phone back to his ear in time to hear Lydia’s answer, sweet as spun sugar.

“Hello babies,” she cooed, then dropped back to her serious voice in an instant. “Tell those babies I said hello, Stiles.”

“Aunt Lydia says hi, guys.” The kids were setup on the kitchen table, in an attempt to mitigate the amount of clay and food colouring that was going to end up mashed into his carpet, and so Stiles stepped into the living room for a speck of privacy. “They’re elbow deep in homemade playdough at the moment. I think Scott might have eaten a solid pound of it when I wasn’t looking.”

“Of course he did.” Lydia’s bone dry amusement was one of his favourite reactions; Stiles savoured it, even as he started idly neatening up the Sunday spread of toys. “Malia probably didn’t even have to dare him. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Uh, working… I think?” He flipped through his mental calendar, not quite concerned enough to double check on his phone. “Yeah, working. The kids’ll be at preschool, right, so I’m going to try and finish off this site I’m doing—”

“Freelance work,” Lydia cut in. “Not at the store?”

When Stiles hummed agreement, she carried on. “Good. You’re coming with me to Fáelán Academy. I already booked a tour. Nine A.M.”

“I’m what?” The stuffed octopus he’d been gathering up off the couch tumbled out of his slack fingers, landing back in a pitiful pile of rainbow limbs. “Lydia—”

“No, Stiles. No excuses.”

“Which is exactly what they’ll say,” he said between his teeth, trudging farther away from the kitchen door and lowering his voice to a hiss. “When I ask them if they accept I.O.U.s in place of tuition. Right before I get laughed out of the principal’s office. Seriously, Lyds, I can’t do it.”

“It’s the best integrated school in the state,” she said, which was perfect, if her goal was to make him feel like more of a miserable failure of a dad. “Possibly the best on the West Coast.”

“Yeah, awesome, great, that’s fan-fucking-tastic. And I’m the best customer service rep at Shelf Indulgence, and a pretty damn good programmer, but I still only make fifteen bucks an hour, plus contract work.” As fast and hot as his anger had risen up, it ebbed back like a tide, leaving him boneless and profoundly weary, slouching against the front door. “Shit. I can’t… I don’t know what to tell you, Lyds. I looked at the tuition on their website, and yeah, it’s not as ball-crushingly bad as I thought, but it’s still too much for both of them. _Shit_.”

His eyes were watery, with frustration more than anything else. Or maybe it was dust. Yeah.

“Stiles.” He rubbed his face, taking a deep breath as Lydia spoke quietly and calmly in his ear. “I need you to trust me. Come on the tour with me tomorrow.”

A horrible thought hit him like a hammer, and Stiles straightened up somewhat, glaring at nothing in particular. “I’m not taking your money, Lydia, so don’t even—”

“I’m not.” The frustrated sigh from the other end of the call was strangely reassuring. “I wouldn’t. For god’s sake, Stiles. I’ve been in contact with their admissions office, and there are scholarship opportunities. Maybe enough to make this work for you.”

Hope was a deadly dangerous flare of heat in his chest, like a spark to tinder, but Stiles couldn’t allow it to go any further than that. Vague maybes and potential opportunities could easily end in disappointment.

“I don’t want to fall in love with it,” he said, chewing on his thumbnail while Lydia wasn’t actually near enough to bug him about the habit. “The photos are bad enough. I don’t want to go there, and fall in love, and have to settle for something else.”

“Trust me,” Lydia said again, and Stiles wanted to. He really did. “Isaac is going to want to go to school with his best friends, and you know my baby gets what he wants.”

That was enough to startle a bark of a laugh out of him, maybe a little desperate around the edges, just before Scotty called for him from the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

“I made extra for you.” Stiles pointed at the whole wheat bagel, half-wrapped in a napkin, then went back to breaking up an orange into segments. His dad made an inquisitive grunt, not quite verbal until he’d had at least a sip of coffee, and continued his beeline toward the percolator.

The kids were still in their PJs, mowing through their own bagels with the sort of enthusiasm that Stiles really envied on a Monday morning. He’d managed to drag himself out of bed in time to grab a shower before waking them, so he wasn’t a complete zombie, but he’d been up way too late the night before, getting some work done and quietly freaking the fuck out.

Splitting the orange pieces between Scott and Malia’s plates, Stiles licked a bit of juice off his fingers. “You want more milk, princess?”

“Yes, please.” He snagged her empty cup; his dad was already sliding the jar of protein powder across the counter before Stiles had finished dragging the gallon of milk out of the fridge.

“Thanks, Pops.” The nutritional requirements for a growing shifter weren’t wildly different than for a human kid, but the pediatrician had made some recommendations about boosting Malia’s diet compared to her brother’s. More protein, more calories, plenty of red meat— pretty much the exact opposite of her grandpa.

John hummed over the rim of his coffee cup, leaning one hip against the cupboards, and picked up his breakfast. He made a face when he found cottage cheese and salsa smeared inside instead of the gooey peanut butter melting all over the kids’ fingers, but didn’t complain.

“Dad,” Malia said, craning her face toward him as Stiles set her cup back in front of her, filled up with chocolate protein mix. Scott got low sugar Nesquik stirred into his instead, but he was still nursing his first cup, being his usual weird little self and dipping chunks of bagel in his milk. “I want to wear my shark shirt today. Can I?”

“Uh…” Reaching over, Stiles pushed Malia’s messy brown bangs back from her forehead. “Maybe? If it’s clean, sure. And if it’s in a ball on your bedroom floor, it’s not clean, no matter how much you want to wear it.”

And yeah, maybe Stiles still used the sniff-test on his own dubiously clean clothes sometimes, but John’s subtle, snorting laughter was totally unnecessary.

Then, without any warning at all, Stiles felt his stomach drop to his feet.

“Oh.” Turning away from the kids, he braced one hand on the counter, groping at the pocket of his pyjama pants and fumbling with his phone. His dad was giving him a questioning eyebrow, and Stiles shook his head, blindly tapping out his passcode.

 _School tour_ , he mouthed silently at his dad, then pinched the collar of his ratty tshirt, yanking at the thin fabric. He’d filled John in on the basics of the Fáelán thing the night before. “I’m guessing rolling up in a hoodie and jeans isn’t the best plan. Like, should I wear a suit? Or is that too much? Is overdressed better or worse for this sort of thing?”

“Maybe not a hoodie,” John said, brushing bagel crumbs off the front of his uniform shirt. “Slacks, a button down… I don’t know, kid, and whatever I tell you is going to get overruled in a minute anyway. Take a breath; call Lydia.”

“Right.” He really wasn’t keen on having a discussion about this with the twins sitting two feet away. Until he knew something concrete, he wasn’t getting their hopes up about any school. “Yeah, okay.”

“Dad?” Malia’s voice was softer this time, and when Stiles glanced over, he found both his kids watching him with matching brown milk moustaches and expressions of wide-eyed worry. “Your heart is really loud. Are you scared?”

“No, baby, no.” Shit, he was such a mess. “I’m just excited. Your dad’s going out with Aunt Lydia this morning, while you guys and Isaac are at school.”

Stiles’ impeccable poker face meant absolutely jack shit to his rugrats— Malia was a merciless, pint-sized polygraph, and she’d only gotten better at it since she’d been spending more time around other shifters at preschool. And while Scott might not have his sister’s senses, he did have freakishly good intuition for a five year old, and a sort of sweet, understated cleverness that people often underestimated.

Stiles was utterly convinced that his kids were either going to be superheros or supervillians when they grew up, and to be honest, he wasn’t too concerned either way. They were definitely going to be awesome, regardless.

At the moment, the twins were sharing a suspicious look with each other, having a whole conversation with just their big brown eyes. A little bit of sweat started to pop on the back of Stiles’ neck.

“Come on, kiddos,” his dad said suddenly, pulling Stiles’ ass out of the fire like a champ. “Finish up and go get dressed, and you can hitch a ride into school with me, all right?”

“With the sirens?” Both twins asked at once, eagerness swiftly overtaking agitation, and Stiles resisted the urge to go boneless with relief.

“Maybe for a minute,” John allowed, taking a drag of his coffee. “Definitely the lights, but only if you move your butts. Go on.”

Nothing got spilled in the ensuing scramble, but that was mostly due to the empty plates and cups. It wasn’t ten seconds later that the kitchen was completely clear of children, and footsteps were thundering up the stairs.

“You are a wizard,” Stiles said, scrubbing a hand over his face as he typed out a speedy text to Lydia. “You’re King Dad. Dear god, please, teach me your secrets.”

“Hell, this is the easy part.” Polishing off the last of his bagel, John tossed the napkin in the trash and topped up his coffee. “You just wait ‘til the teens hit. If there’s an ounce of karma in this universe, they’ll be exactly like you were at that age, times two. And I’ll be getting a bunk installed at the station before it happens, so good luck with that.”

“Evil, _evil_ King Dad.” Stiles’ phone beeped with an incoming message. “Lydia says I should wear brown cords and my avocado sweater. I own an avocado sweater?”

“She means the green one.”

Looking up, Stiles squinted, desperately searching for a hint that his dad was fucking with him. Nothing. John looked completely sincere, as though he was imparting some great knowledge. Like Stiles wasn’t the only one in the house whose job required a level of familiarity with design and you know, colours.

Like he wasn’t the only one who actually bought avocados.

“Oh yeah, dad. Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles had been forbidden from taking his own car, with Lydia shutting down every one of his arguments with limited patience and no hint of mercy. So instead of spending the drive cranking some Nicki Minaj from his iPod and trying not to hyperventilate at every intersection, he was hunched in the passenger seat of his terrifying best friend’s Lexus, fitfully playing with the satellite radio until she slapped his hand.

“Stop it.” With a twist of her wrist, she turned the music down to a low, unobtrusive murmur. “And stop pouting. It’s just a tour. No commitments, no expectations.”

“Sure.” Pressing his forehead against the cold glass of the window, Stiles let his fingers drum against his thighs, rubbing at the texture of his pants just to keep his hands busy. “Are you, or are you not, dragging me into the principal’s office? I know it’s been a while since we were in school, but I never remember that being a particularly fun time.”

“It’s going to be fine.” Outside the car, they were moving out of the tighter residential neighbourhoods; the houses were thinning out, with a few more trees between them. Stiles’ knee started bobbing.

“You sure I shouldn’t have worn a tie? This feels like a tie thing.”

“I’m sure you would have strangled yourself with a tie. It’s a tour, not a prom.” They made a sharp turn, and suddenly there was the big wrought iron gate Stiles recognized from the photos on Fáelán’s website. The design was all organic looking spirals, elegant but somehow still earthy, and it was clearly heavy-duty enough to be practical as well as decorative.

“Martin and Stilinski,” Lydia said into the intercom when they pulled up, and Stiles was trying his best not to be won over by the security alone. It had been about twenty-five years since the big reveal had brought the existence of shifters into public consciousness, and there was still some lingering tension.

One of the more heated debates du jour was education. Not everyone was happy about the idea of integrated schools, even though the segregation of human and shifter kids hadn’t been the norm for even three decades yet. Before shifters were out in the open, they’d all managed to survive hundreds of years with their kids learning side by side, without gradeschoolers mauling each other left and right.

The summer his mother was killed, Stiles had been six years old, only a year older than his own kids were now, and the existence of shifters had been public for five. At the time, it hadn’t been the first murder of a shifter since the reveal, and it wasn’t the last.

The voice on the other end of the intercom welcomed them, the gate swung open almost soundlessly, and Stiles swallowed hard. He’d bought his jacket for ten bucks at Old Navy, and he was wearing Hulk socks under his scuffed boots. He did as much of his shopping in the bargain bins at the supermarket as possible, and he’d still happily binge vintage sci-fi shows and eat his weight in taquitos and Mountain Dew if the kids weren’t around to pick up their dad’s terrible habits.

Stiles Stilinski was not Fáelán Academy people.

“Stiles, I swear to god.” Lydia pulled into a parking space marked _Visitor_ , and the warmth of her fingers squeezing around his hand was a comforting counterpoint to the bite of her words. “If you throw up in my car, I’m locking you in the trunk.”

“I’m good,” he said, then tried again, this time without wheezing. “I’m— I’m good. I’m totally good, a hundred percent. Let’s rock.”

“You’re doing this for Malia and Scott,” Lydia said, without making a single move to get out of the car or let go of his hand. “You’re a great dad. You’re smart, you’re a bizarre sort of charming, and on top of all that, you’ve got me to help make this happen. Do you honestly think that between the two of us, anyone in this damn school is going to be able to tell us no? That we’re going to walk out of here before they’re bending over backwards, begging for the privilege of teaching our brilliant kids?”

She grabbed him by the chin with her free hand, forcing him to stop staring at the dashboard and look at her face instead.

“Listen to me very closely,” she said, forcefully enunciating every word in that incredibly intimidating way that had never failed to make him shiver. “ _This is going to work_.”

“Fuck.” Stiles took a breath, deep into his lungs, then let it out in a long, thin exhale. He was doing this for Malia and Scott. He was doing this for his babies.

He was going to do this for his babies.

“That’s my boy,” Lydia said, her painted plum lips curling into a smirk as she studied his face. She tapped him gently on the cheek before unbuckling her seatbelt. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

The photos didn’t do the place justice; Fáelán Academy was gorgeous, all warm stone and pale golden wood, with ample windows breaking up the exterior. They were still in town, but close enough to the Beacon Hills Preserve that the trees dotting the lushly green campus looked old and sturdy, maybe even a bit wild in a really attractive way. The building itself was new, freshly constructed about four years earlier, but it already seemed to have settled in as part of the landscape. It blended seamlessly, as though it had always been there, skirting the edge of the woods.

Inside the main foyer was just as impressive as outside— the ceiling was tall, open and airy, with unpainted wooden beams visible above the hanging light fixtures. All the colours were soft and inviting, with more polished woodgrain among shades of brown, blue, and green.

Stiles tried hard not to gawk as he trailed Lydia over to what turned out to be reception. The woman behind the desk was all smiles, ushering them in pleasantly when Lydia gave their names.

Before he knew it, Stiles was standing in a cosy office, while Lydia shook hands with the bald dude standing behind the large, fastidiously tidy desk. Stiles recognised the guy’s photo from the Academy’s online staff directory, as well as their _Headmaster’s Welcome_ page.

“Ms. Martin,” the headmaster said, and he had one of the most even, calmest voices Stiles had ever heard. It was like someone was giving his eardrums a hug and a cup of tea. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. And this must be Mr. Stilinski.”

“Yep, that’s me.” He stepped forward and reached out when a handshake was offered, biting back the automatic _just call me Stiles_ , and managed not to trip over his own feet. “Thanks for having us, Dr. Deaton. So far, uh, wow, this is a beautiful school.”

“Thank you.” With a slow sweep of his arm, Deaton motioned toward the two upholstered chairs waiting in front of his desk. “We’re very proud of our facilities, as well as our programming. Please, have a seat.”

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, Dr. Deaton was guiding their tour himself, which was impressive and nerve-wracking all at once. Stiles was hyper aware that, just as he was judging whether Fáelán was a good fit for his kids, Deaton was definitely busy judging whether Stiles, and by extension Scott and Malia, were a good fit for Fáelán.

They’d already taken a walk around the campus, including the ridiculously awesome playground— there was a jungle gym that would have made Malia literally howl with joy, and enough sports equipment to bury Scott alive. Inside, Stiles may have let out an incredibly embarrassing groan when he’d gotten a good look at the library, and then another one when they’d peeked into one of the tech labs, but Deaton hadn’t mentioned it. Stiles was more than willing to cling to the illusion that the man hadn’t heard him.

“Your children are all starting kindergarten in the fall,” Deaton was saying, as he led them down a wide corridor lined with brightly decorated bulletin boards, posters, and a scattering of closed doors. “We currently only accept a very limited number of students— no more than twenty children per class, usually fewer, and only one class in every grade level. As our school continues to grow, we may eventually create additional classes per grade, but we’re committed to maintaining these small class sizes. Our current kindergarten class has twelve students.”

Class sizes pushing thirty kids had been the norm at Stiles’ elementary school, and he was one of the kids who’d suffered from a lack of one-on-one attention— he’d been really fucked up for a while after his mom died, and he didn’t get his ADHD diagnosis until fourth grade. He didn’t blame the teachers for any of that bullshit, either. It was hard enough giving equal attention to two kids, or three including Isaac, with only one of him to go around. He couldn’t even imagine trying to rangle thirty of them to sit still for hours, let alone keep them happy and engaged at the same time.

“Here we are.” Deaton drew them to a stop in front of a door, flanked on either side by bulletin boards and topped across the lintel with a hand drawn, brown paper banner. The board on the left was covered in rough crayon art of what Stiles guessed were meant to be different wintery animals, like penguins and polar bears, while the board on the right had photos pasted to sheets of construction paper, with short sentences written in crooked, childish letters underneath. Every photo was a different kid, each holding a stuffed toy.

“This is our kindergarten class,” Deaton said, which was kind of redundant, considering the paper banner above the door read _**KINDERGARTEN**_ in thick block letters. All around the word, Stiles saw names had been written in marker— _Mateo, Theresa, Derek, Lataya,_ and a bunch more. The awkward signatures of little kids, some of them barely legible, except for one name, neatly printed in dark blue: _Mr. Hale_.

“I believe recess is due to begin shortly.” Deaton glanced at his watch, then looked back at Stiles and Lydia with the same small, benevolent smile he’d been wearing all morning. “A perfect time to observe, if you’d like.”

“Wonderful,” Lydia said, and Stiles nodded along, despite his reservations about interrupting. It would be probably be good to see the class in session, maybe get a feel for the teacher, the expectations, and the schedule.

Deaton rapped his knuckles lightly against the door, and pushed it open without waiting for an answer. He didn’t speak as he stepped inside, but Stiles noticed him nod at someone before motioning for Lydia and Stiles to follow him.

The first thing Stiles noticed was all the natural light pouring in the tall windows, casting the whole room in a friendly warmth. There were several bookcases, what looked like an art table dominating one corner, and an open area carpeted with thick foam mats. Other than the standard posters all over the walls (alphabet, colours, shapes), a lot of the decor had obviously been personalised by the class.

There were lopsided paper snowflakes pinned all over one wall, most of them smeared with silver and blue glitter, and a bunch of multicoloured foam balls in various sizes hanging from the ceiling by fishing line. It took Stiles a second to realize he was looking at the solar system strung up above their heads, which made even more sense when he noticed the large bulletin board of labelled constellations, drawn with silver on black paper, and the banner of moon phases, too. In the very middle of the room, there were a dozen little desks decorated with shiny, cut-out stars, clustered into groups of three, with detached plastic chairs in vivid primary colours.

And standing in front of one of the huge touch screen blackboards that had been haunting Stiles dreams all weekend long, there was an unfairly handsome guy dressed in a beige henley, fitted grey cardigan, and dark jeans.

Weren’t kindergarten teachers supposed to be frazzled, maybe a bit spacey, and covered in paint and glitter glue? There had to be a law or something about that.

Stiles only had the two kids to worry about— three, if Isaac was tagging along. While he liked to imagine he rocked the hip _dad on the go_ look, more often than not that meant he’d thrown on whatever was clean and comfy, with relatively few stains in obvious places. Half the time, he got dressed in the dark and hoped for the best. And even that was only on the better days, when he didn’t look like some deranged troll who’d rolled around in the discount bin at a craft store.

How the hell could somebody chase after a dozen five year olds all day long, and then just stand there like he was waiting for GQ to call for reshoots? Was this motherfucker scotchgarded?

The guy, presumably Mr. Hale, spared the three interlopers a brief, flat look of entirely obvious annoyance, then turned back to the kids perched in their desks.

“Alright, apparently that’s enough for now. Buddy up, then jackets and shoes.”

The students didn’t wait around, shuffling out of their seats immediately; Mr. Hale watched them for a moment, then strode over towards the other adults.

“Alan,” Mr. Hale said, which pinged in Stiles’ brain as Dr. Deaton’s first name. “To what do I owe the pleasure.”

It might have technically been a question, but it sounded much more sarcastic than Stiles had ever anticipated. Dr. Deaton didn’t even blink.

“Ms. Martin and Mr. Stilinski are parents of prospective students,” he said. “Their children may be in your class next year. This is Mr. Peter Hale.”

Mr. Hale didn’t offer his hand, but he did dip his chin ever so slightly at Lydia, and again at Stiles. “Thankfully, we’re about to head out for recess. You’ll be less of a distraction there than lurking in the back of my lessons.”

Stiles could already tell that Lydia was less than impressed with Mr. Hale; he felt her posture get stiffer beside him, and he didn’t have to look over to guess at the subtly homicidal expression hardening her face. Okay, so maybe the snide attitude didn’t make the best first impression, but Stiles wasn’t quite ready to make any firm judgements yet about Mister Sassy Stubble. It didn’t make sense: no school with reviews this good was going to have complete assholes for teachers. Maybe the dude was just having a tough morning, contrary to the picture painted by his smart clothes and perfectly styled hair.

After the frenzied fifteen minutes Stiles had spent emptying every drawer in his closet onto his bed, pawing around for an avocado sweater he didn’t actually remember buying, he could relate.

“Mr. Hale?” A small voice drew all of their attention downward; the girl was short, even for kindergarten, with full cheeks and natural hair styled into two puffy black pigtails on top of her head. Every speck of irritation melted away from Mr. Hale’s face, and he immediately knelt to the girl’s level, slipping into a sort of quasi-parental concern that somehow didn’t appear any less genuine than his previous snark, despite how rapidly he’d shifted gears. Stiles’ gave himself a mental pat on the back, privately vindicated; obviously, the dude wasn’t a complete dick when it counted. Great dad instincts for the win.

“Paige’s sick today,” the girl said, twisting the hem of her striped shirt. “I don’t have a buddy.”

“Of course you do, Taya.” The man held out one hand, and the girl didn’t hesitate to tuck her palm into the curl of his thick fingers. “Everyone has a buddy in this pack. Come on, we’ll get your coat.”

And just like that, Mr. Hale was gone without so much as a glance back at the adults.

“Oh,” Lydia said, not bothering to mask all the layers of surprise contained in that single word. Coiled tension bled out of her, and Stiles chewed his lip, holding back an entirely inappropriate smirk. He loved Lydia, adored her genius brain and every wildly self-confident bone in her body, but having her assumptions proved wrong was good for her on occasion. Being shaken up helped keep her razor-sharp and quick as lightning, even if it only happened rarely.

“He’s very good,” Deaton said, while across the room, Mr. Hale carefully zipped the little girl into her windbreaker, then offered a fist bump to a boy who’d successfully tied his outdoor shoes. “With the children.”

There had been a significant pause between both halves of that sentence, and Stiles filed that away for later consideration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick bonus chapter, because I just couldn't leave you without a Peter intro <3
> 
> From here on out, I'm going to shoot for weekly updates, or possibly twice a month depending on my schedule.


	3. The Buddy System

There was a brisk wind, but the sun was pleasantly warm when Mr. Hale led his class out into the playground; Deaton ushered Stiles and Lydia to follow along, keeping to the rear. Every kid was firmly latched together in a pair with a classmate, walking two-by-two with hands or elbows linked, while the little girl from before, Taya, was still holding on to Mr. Hale’s hand, trotting along beside him at the front of the line.

“Oh my god, that’s so cute,” Stiles whispered, leaning down to Lydia’s ear. His nerves were still buzzing, feeling almost as on-edge as the first time his dad had nearly arrested him, but he really didn’t do the serious, taciturn thing particularly well. “Look at all the little buddies, oh my _god_. If I had ovaries, they’d be exploding right now.”

“They’re pretty cute,” Lydia admitted quietly, barely audible over the click of her heels. “Not as cute as Isaac.”

“Ah, right. And that’s your completely objective, unbiased opinion.”

The look Lydia sent him through the dark sweep of her lashes might have permanently withered the testicles of lesser men. Stiles had years of practice building up a resistance, and managed to get away with just a wince. Shortly thereafter, he was absurdly pleased when Lydia snagged his arm without warning, looping her hand through the crook of his elbow and forcing him to match her stride. Mr. Hale was definitely onto something; having a buddy was pretty great.

Once they all filed outside, Stiles got a chance to see the playground as it was meant to be: absolutely lousy with excited, squealing kids. The kindergarteners stuck together for a moment or two, milling around in a loose, chatty huddle, until Mr. Hale addressed the lot of them.

“Hey,” he called out, sharp as a clap, and eleven little faces turned to him in unison. “Scatter, pups.”

It was like someone flicked a switch marked _haul ass_. The kids were gone so fast, Stiles’ was disappointed by the lack of cartoon smoke billowing out from behind them.

“Wow,” Stiles said, only a split second before he was left abandoned and untethered, standing alone at the edge of the playground while Lydia stalked over toward Dr. Deaton and Mr. Hale. She was already opening her purse and pulling out a thick sheaf of papers, colour-coded and annotated.

The poor bastards had no idea what was coming.

Shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, Stiles took the opportunity to watch dozens of children scrambling over the tiers of the play structure like ants over dropped ice cream. It was easy to imagine Scotty clambering up the big spiral slide, and Malia swinging from the monkey bars. He could already pick out a few kids moving quicker and more fluidly than others— they were probably shifters— but it all seemed to blend together in a mass of shared fun, rather than fracturing. He noticed a couple interactions that reminded him of the twins, like when Malia would lift her brother to nab something just out of reach instead of scaling up herself, or Scotty laughed himself breathless instead of getting frustrated when she literally ran circles around him.

He was so focused on thinking about how much fun his kids would have at a school like this, how stupidly perfect it all seemed, that he may have shrieked, just a tiny bit, when an unexpected voice suddenly spoke up right behind his ear.

“Did no one ever teach you?”

“Crap—” He sucked in breath, forcing his heart back down from where it was hammering out of his throat. Mr. Hale’s mouth curled into a sharky half-smile as he watched Stiles choke on his own spit, and when he crossed his arms, it was hard not to notice how the knit of his cardigan strained over his biceps. And oh shit, those were some very pretty blue eyes.

Stiles had never been accused of being particularly classy, but he needed to stop perving over his kids’ potential kindergarten teacher. _Immediately_.

“I, uh…” Stiles took an aborted step back, putting something approaching normal personal space between himself, and smirky Mr. Hale. “Teach me what now?”

“That it’s rude to stare.” Tipping his head to the side, Mr. Hale subscribed to the _do as I say, not as I do_ school of thought, studying Stiles face for a long, silent moment.

Eventually, just before it got so weird that Stiles would have been legally and morally obligated to crack some sort of horrible joke, Mr. Hale’s attention slid smoothly back to the playground.

“Tell me, does she have even the slightest conception of how ridiculous that is?” He motioned with one elbow toward where Lydia was still flipping through papers with a patient Deaton. “Nattering on about AP classes and standardized test scores— your children are what, four years old?”

“Hers, yeah. Lydia’s little guy turns five in February,” Stiles said with a shrug, not necessarily disagreeing. Academics were important, and not just because he might have to sell a kidney to afford what his kids deserved, but the little peanuts also needed the chance to be kids. “Mine just turned five about a week ago. November babies.”

“Yours?” Mr. Hale hummed, and it was hard to tell if the noise was meant to be politely inquisitive or just bored. “I assumed you were a couple. Blended family?”

“Nah, we’re just buddies.” It wasn’t the first time someone had jumped to that conclusion. Even though he’d shaken off any romantic notions about her back in high school, the idea that people thought Lydia Martin would pick _him_ never failed to make Stiles preen for at least a couple of hours. Pausing for a split second while Mr. Hale raised a very eloquent, impossibly suggestive eyebrow at him, Stiles reconsidered his phrasing and elaborated. “What? No, god, not like fuck bud— No! Don’t swear in the playground, oh my god. We’re _platonic_ buddies. Parent buddies. Like, Lydia’s got a husband and a kid, and I’ve got the twins. Just me. Single dad Stiles.”

Mr. Hale hummed again, less polite and more amused this time. “I see. You have twins?”

Stiles had absolutely no shame about being the sort of parent who took every opportunity to show off his gorgeous babies. As an added bonus, it gave everyone something else to focus on besides his previous bout of verbal diarrhea. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he thumbed it awake and held up his lock screen.

“Yeah, Malia and Scott.” The photo was only a little more than a month old; he’d snapped it, and probably seven hundred more, just before he’d taken them out to trawl the neighbourhood at Halloween. Scott was looking right at the camera, decked out in green scrubs with an oversized stethoscope dangling around his neck. Malia was draped over her brother’s back with her eyes squeezed shut, and the shiny gold sheriff’s badge pinned to her brown shirt was nearly poking him in the cheek. Both kids were grinning wide enough to see from space, and that was before they’d each eaten their combined weight in tootsie rolls and mini Kit-Kats.

Stiles couldn’t even take credit for the badass costume choices; it had honestly been the kids’ idea, and his dad and Melissa had been absolutely thrilled when they’d found out. A nurse (Scotty had politely but firmly corrected every single person who’d called him a doctor, all evening long), and a sheriff, like Mel and Grandpa. The cute-factor had been through the roof, too.

“Wolf and human,” Mr. Hale said, and Stiles nodded, pulling the phone back to unlock it and hunt down a couple more good photos. “And you’re keen on them going to school together?”

“Yeah, that’s non-negotiable.” Calling up the app to view his albums, Stiles flipped through a few shots of them all collecting shells at the beach last summer. He was still finding goddamn sand in his car. “I’d quit my job and homeschool them before I let them get split up, especially because of something so profoundly gross as shifter segregation. It’s ridiculous.”

When Mr. Hale didn’t say anything, Stiles glanced up, and immediately felt something in his gut clench at the look on the man’s face. Sometimes, if she was really intent on something, Malia would go totally stock-still like this, with a particular gleam in her dark eyes. There wasn’t anything else to call it besides _predatory_ , and though it was always rooted in curiosity rather than aggression, most people tended to find it unnerving. Their first pediatrician recommended he try to socialize it out of her, along with a few other behaviours, like scent marking; their current pediatrician had never mentioned it.

Stiles had never been scared of his daughter, and he wasn’t scared of Mr. Hale, either. He was, however, entirely convinced that the man was a shifter too. The last name had been a pretty big clue, but this was the clincher.

“How... progressive of you,” Mr. Hale said, right before his gaze shifted past Stiles, and whatever caught his attention made his forehead knit. “Excuse me.”

Without another word, the man stalked off a short distance across the playground, stepping deftly around running children. When he stopped beside a dark-haired boy with a very serious set of eyebrows, Stiles may have shifted his feet subtly in that direction, straining to listen.

“—has a stomach ache,” Mr. Hale was saying to the boy. “Humans get sick sometimes. It’s not the end of the world, Derek. She’ll probably be back tomorrow or the next day, but if you keep moping around, your face is going to stick that way, and let me tell you, it’s gruesome. You’ll spend the rest of your life scaring small children and animals, cracking all the mirrors in the house, and Paige will probably never speak to you again.”

Big, pale eyes grew impossibly bigger and wetter— Jesus, the kid honestly looked like an anime character with his eyes glistening and his hair sticking up like that— and Mr. Hale heaved an enormous, full-bodied sigh before dropping into a crouch.

“Okay, stop that. Paige will be back.” He took the boy by both shoulders, propping him out of his pitiful slump. “And you can make her a Get Well card tonight when you get home, if you want. For now, though, you need to smarten up, tuck that lip in, and go share your snack with Lataya. She’s missing Paige too, isn’t she?”

The boy considered that for a minute, then nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good.” In a move that was too quick for Stiles to completely follow, Mr. Hale grabbed the kid by the scruff of the neck, giving him a hard shake. Derek didn’t make a peep of complaint about the roughness; the boy actually seemed to enjoy it, if the crooked, hesitant smile creeping onto his face was any indication. “Go on. Get me some chocolate if anyone’s trading.”

“You have chocolate in your desk, Uncle Peter,” the kid said, and Mr. Hale shook him again, only slightly gentler this time, before letting him go and rising back to his feet.

“Spurious rumour,” he said, brushing his palms against the thighs of his jeans. “Completely untrue. Why must you tell lies Derek? What would your mother say?”

If Derek had anything else to say to that, Stiles missed it. Lydia was calling his name, and anyway, his stealthy eavesdropping was probably starting to cross the line between curious and creepy at this point.

“Yeah, coming,” he called back, still pretending to be engrossed in his phone for a few more seconds, before loping over to chat with her and Deaton. 

 

* * *

 

“This looks like good news,” his dad said, sidling up to counter where Stiles was assembling the toppings for homemade pizzas. He’d only been home a few minutes, but he’d already locked his sidearm away and unbuttoned his uniform shirt. “Want a hand?”

“Nah, they’re—” With a dramatic flourish, Stiles sprinkled the last of the low-fat mozzarella onto the straight up pepperoni pie he’d made for the kids. “Done! But thanks, and hey, there’s no _bad_ news. Nothing for sure yet, but I got some scholarship info that looks promising.”

“So how was it,” John asked around a mouthful of extra pepperoni he nabbed off the cutting board. “I’ve driven by a couple times— is the whole thing fenced in like the front?”

Stiles proceeded to spend a good twenty minutes— long enough to cook the kids’ pizza first, and pop his and his dad’s in the oven after— waxing poetic about Fáelán Academy and all its incredibly cool shit. His dad listened to the whole spiel, interjecting with a few questions here and there, but mostly staying quiet. When Stiles finally wound down, bringing his hands back in from their enthusiastic flailing and all but collapsing back against the countertop, John slung an arm around his shoulders.

“It sounds perfect, son,” he said, achingly sincere. Hopeful. _Proud_. Stiles hooked his fingers together, worrying absently at his knuckles.

“Yep.” A peal of canned laughter from the TV filtered out of the living room, where the kids were splayed out colouring and watching cartoons. “So, I gotta write an essay for the scholarship thing. I think I’ve still got enough mad skills left from college to bullshit like a pro, but, uh, will you maybe read it over before I send it? Just another set of eyes, you know?”

“Yeah.” John’s arm tightened, turning a loose hold into half a hug. “Course I will. Just, do me a favour? Try and stay on topic. Because there’s bullshitting, and then there’s just bullshit, and I’m not sure you always understand the difference, kiddo.”

 

* * *

 

“Mom?” He never did this. Not out loud, at any rate. Living with a shifter kid meant he had to be extra careful about the crap that came out of his mouth; Malia could always be listening, at any moment of any day. They’d already had several discussions about privacy, and how some language was appropriate for grown ups but not for kids, but he couldn’t ask his daughter to turn her ears off. Even though she’d started learning how to focus and filter things better in the past year or so— shifter preschool had been a godsend for that sort of stuff— there was no guarantee she wouldn’t accidentally tune in at an inopportune moment.

A moment like this one, when Stiles decided to have a chat with his dead mother at eleven thirty on a Monday night.

He was vegging out on the couch, with his feet propped on the coffee table and his laptop balanced on his knees. The document in front of him was gallingly empty, except for a shaky attempt at a couple introductory sentences. Rubbing at the grittiness in his eyes, Stiles clicked back to the email he’d gotten from Deaton, scrolling down to the section that outlined the essay prompt.

_Please give the committee an idea of who you are and why your child is the perfect candidate for the scholarship._

It was a straightforward, totally ordinary sort of question for something like this. Stiles had written the same essay probably twenty times when he’d been applying to universities, but that had been different. It had been about him, and _only_ him. Selling himself felt miles different than trying to sell his kids.

Which is how he’d ended up here, with his head lolling back on the couch cushions, staring up at the shadowy ceiling. Talking to his mom.

“So, the peanuts are starting kindergarten next year.” His dad had shuffled upstairs about an hour ago, and the twins had been asleep since eight. Most of the house was dark and still, except for the glow of Stiles’ laptop screen, and the lamp he’d left on across the room.

“I can’t believe they’re five already. Is it always gonna feel like they were squirmy little poop factories just like, yesterday? Is that normal?”

His voice was barely a whisper, low and weirdly gruff. It still sounded almost unbearably loud when the rest of the house felt as though it was holding its breath.

 _I wish you could’ve met them_.

Those particular words stuck in his throat, like usual. He wondered sometimes if his dad had ever said them out loud, even just quietly to himself, watching his grandkids chasing each other around the backyard.

“So, yeah.” Stiles reached out to grab his can of coke from the coffee table, washing away any lingering hoarseness. His chest hurt, a dull ache deep behind his ribs, but no amount of soda guzzling was going to help that. Beer might, for a little while, but that wasn’t a road Stiles was willing to travel. “Yeah. Kindergarten. Private school, too, which is so weird to even think about. I kind of hoped this separate classes for shifters crap would have been over by now, you know? But that’s me: forever the wide-eyed optimist.”

Having a one-sided conversation with his mother would have felt even weirder if he wasn’t a sarcastic little shit at least once.

“Sorry,” he said, sinking deeper into the couch. “Ugh, shit, I’ve got to write this. And I’m not… I just want to know you’d be okay with me using this. Using you. I think you would.”

His computer clock ticked over from 11:49PM, to 11:50PM, catching his eye. He had a shift at the bookstore tomorrow, from nine until five, and his dad was working day shift. Lydia was going to pick the kids up from preschool, and keep them for dinner at the Martin-Whittemores’.

The idea of sleep was a weight on his skull, trying to drag him under.

“I think you would,” he said again, tapping his fingers over the keyboard absently, not pressing down. “For the twins, you’d be okay with this. You’d want me to use anything. You’d… maybe be proud? If this actually helps, you’re the one helping them.”

Cracking his knuckles, Stiles selected everything he had so far, and deleted it. He needed to start over, if he was really doing this. Mulligan.

He could have written a ten volume dissertation, with full bibliography, on all the reasons his kids were spectacularly awesome and deserved the best school possible. All the reasons Fáelán Academy would be damned lucky to have his babies, seven hours a day for the next seven years, could easily fill encyclopedias.

When he finally buckled down and sorted his scattered thoughts on the subject, however, Stiles managed to trim that into a reasonable, but still effusive couple of paragraphs.

Then it was time to write the kicker— his ace in the hole. Time to be completely shameless and manipulative, but for the sake of his kids, which made it at least sixty percent less sleazy. Plus, he was being manipulative using sincerity and real feelings, which had to reduce the skeeve factor even more. In the grand scheme of all the shady things he’d done up to this point, or potentially could have done, or even maybe did but never got caught, this was a blip. This totally didn’t count.

Stiles sent one last lingering glance up towards the ceiling before rolling a cramp out of his neck and attacking the keyboard again, smiling softly at nothing in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter includes a heap of Hales and some surprisingly heavy talk about werewolf politics. These are a few of my favourite things.


	4. A Phone Call from Fáelán

The kids were busy chattering away in the back seat of the car, taking turns passing Scott’s DS back and forth, when Stiles’ cell started to ring. Normally, driving home from preschool with three excited kids on board, he would have ignored the call, but then he glanced down at the phone mounted to the dash.

The call display read: _Fáelán Academy_. Stiles had been feeling hopeful enough to put the number in his contacts after the tour on Monday. He’d even done the accents.

He went cold all over, before a rush of heat flooded out from the pit of his stomach. He was lucky they were nearly home and he could drive the route in his sleep, or he might have ended up hopping a curb.

“Holy crap,” he said under his breath, and wrenched his eyes back to the road. Not getting in a car accident needed to stay a priority. “Hey guys, shush for a sec, okay? I’ve got to take this call; it’s important.”

The chipper chorus of agreements he got in reply was good enough; the three of them were a bit wired, but they were all usually good to remember their manners. Stiles took a breath, and tapped the button to accept the call.

“Hello?” He focused on navigating an intersection, and tried very hard to keep his pulse tamped down. Getting Malia and Isaac freaked out about his heart wouldn’t be good.

“Hello, Mr. Stilinski?” Deaton’s voice was just as mellow through the phone speaker as it was in real life. “It’s Dr. Deaton calling, from Fáelán Academy. Is this a good time?”

It was possible that Stiles’ initial hello had been a bit shaky, maybe a little strangled. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Hi Dr. Deaton, yeah, it’s fine. It’s a great time. Just picking the kids up from preschool, but I can definitely talk.” There was a murmuring from the backseat, but nothing audible. When he took a peek in the rear-view mirror, he saw the kids had gone back to being engrossed in Mario Kart, with Isaac holding the DS in the middle and their heads all pressed together.

“We received your application, Mr. Stilinski.” He’d known that already; he’d checked his email every two minutes after he’d sent it on Wednesday afternoon, with his phone glued to his hand until he’d gotten a confirmation message about a half hour later. It was weirdly reassuring to hear Deaton admit it out loud, though.

It was only Friday— way, _way_ sooner than Stiles had expected to hear anything about this. That was either a fantastically good sign, or an apocalyptically terrible one.

“And we have a few questions,” Deaton continued, and Stiles’ stomach dropped. He’d fucked something up, filled something out wrong or misread the instructions, or maybe pulling out the sob story had been a major misstep. He’d fucked this up. “If you’d like, we can set up a meeting at your earliest convenience. My office hours run through the school day, Monday through Friday, until at least five o’clock. Is there a particular time that might be better for you?”

The dashboard clock was glowing dimly, showing _2:46_ in big, red digits. Pulling into the driveway, Stiles parked in his usual spot, but didn’t make a move to turn off the ignition.

“I’m pretty easy,” he said, and was immediately glad Deaton couldn’t see him wince. Nervous tension was pushing the overly casual words out of him like water through a sieve, bypassing his brain-to-mouth filter altogether. He was a serious, professional person, damn it. He was a grown-up. “I mean, my hours are flexible; whatever works for you, you let me know and I’m there. Anytime next week works. I could— I could do today, even. Like, now.”

Whatever was wrong, Stiles desperately wanted to know the details, and whether the situation was still salvageable. The thought of spending the weekend tearing his hair out over potential problems, with his brain spinning through worse case scenarios without being able to do a damn thing, was not his idea of a fun time. He’d never been any good at sitting on his hands. He wanted information; he wanted to _fix this_.

“Today?” There was a pause, and the shuffling sound of the phone being adjusted on Deaton’s end. “Just let me… Yes, today would be fine, Mr. Stilinski. When should I expect you?”

All at once, Stiles realised that he was sitting in his car, with three kids still strapped in the back, and his dad’s cruiser was conspicuously absent from the other spot in the driveway. Which made sense, since it was Friday, and the Sheriff was on duty until six, then headed out for a date with Melissa.

 _Fuck_.

“Uh, that depends,” Stiles hedged, quickly weighing the pros and cons. He could stall, make an appointment for next week instead, or he could risk it. “Do you mind some extra company? Because I’ve got the kids right now, and it’s no problem for me to bring them along, but if that’ll be inconvenient for you...”

“I think that’s an excellent idea, Mr. Stilinski. And it will give your children an opportunity to experience a bit of our facilities. I’m looking forward to meeting them.”

“Good— great!” Behind him, the kids had gone suspiciously silent. They’d obviously clued in and started listening now that the phone call had something to do with them. “We can be there in half an hour.”

“Wonderful, Mr. Stilinski. This close to the end of the school day, it’s likely the front gates will already be open, but you’ll be expected, regardless.”

“Sounds great, yeah. Thanks, Dr. Deaton.”

A couple goodbyes later, and Stiles was ending the call, laying his forehead against the steering wheel. Lydia was going to murder him. She was going to skin him alive and have him made into a matching purse and shoes, then stake his broken, flayed body up on her gorgeously manicured lawn as a warning.

“Dad?” Scott said, and Stiles felt a light kick against the back of his seat. “How come the car’s still on?”

The kids could all unbuckle their harnesses by themselves, with only the rare instance of tangling, but they knew not to try and open the car doors when the engine was still running. Stiles exhaled, long and slow, then sat up.

“‘Cause I’m not done chauffeuring you around for the day, Scotty boy. You guys wanna go see someplace cool before dinner?”

Reaction was positive— a resounding trio of cheers, trusting and eager even without more details offered. Stiles had managed to accrue some serious _Cool Dad_ points over the years, at least when it came to figuring out fun activities, and he was more than willing to cash them in when the need arose. Stuff like turning the backyard into a huge homemade obstacle course for a whole summer, and so many weird science experiments he found on the internet, had earned him some leeway, even if he was also the jerk who made two of them get regular baths and eat their vegetables.

“Where are we going?” Isaac asked, a split second before Malia added: “Can we get ice cream?”

“It’s a surprise, and no ice cream this time, kiddos.” Just like that, the fickle tide of filial affection turned, and the view in his rear-view was a panorama of pouts. The little scroungers knew Friday was a treat day. “But if you’re on your super best behaviour, there might be brownies later tonight, and you can pick a movie after dinner, okay? Now, anybody gotta pee before we head out?”

The promise of brownies and movie night was enough to bring the mood back up, and all three kids shook their heads no after giving the bathroom question a moment of serious consideration.

“Awesome. Let’s get this show on the road.” Reaching into the glove compartment, Stiles grabbed a box of granola bars, passing it behind as he started to back out of the driveway again. “One each, if you’re hungry. Everybody remember to chew, not inhale— Isaac, I’m talking to you, bud.”

The sound of wrappers tearing was followed swiftly by little mouths chomping, and Stiles took advantage of the granola-induced relative quiet as they headed out.

Lydia was going to kill him, sure. But since she was currently incommunicado, in the middle of trying to hammer multivariable calculus into the skulls of a couple dozen weekend-eager undergrads, Stiles at least had an excuse to postpone his own grisly murder until he’d actually done the deed.

 _Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission_ should have been tattooed on his ass by now.

“Hey Siri, call Wolfman Jack.” The number dialled, ringing three times before connecting.

“I’m at work, Stilinski.” Jackson sounded distracted, but only his usual level of surly, which meant he wasn’t too busy to talk. “And my kid better still have all his limbs.”

“Hi Dad!” There had to be more than a single bar worth of granola in Isaac’s mouth— he sounded like he was wearing a ball gag, for god’s sake— but Stiles didn’t have time to check. No one was choking, which was good enough for the moment.

“Hey, buddy.” The way Jackson could drop every bit of his usual smarminess when he was talking to his son would never stop being a little bit creepy, and really uncomfortably adorable. It made Stiles want to punch the big fluffy dickbag, then hug him, then punch him again for making him want to _hug_ Jackson fucking Whittemore, of all the damn people. _Gross_. “What’s up? You okay?”

When Isaac mumbled something around his food, with any hope of coherence garbled to nonsense, Stiles decided it was time to cut in.

“He’s good, man— busy with a snack at the moment. Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I’m taking the kids out for a bit before dinner, just in case you or Lyds called the house or whatever.”

There was a pregnant moment of silence on the other end of the call, and Stiles was so tempted to just hang up, even if it would have blown the hell out of his _act natural_ routine.

“And you decided to call me,” Jackson said flatly. “Stiles. Take the phone off speaker.”

“Can’t. Driving.” This was so fucked; he’d thought he’d dodged this freaky, quasi-psychic, judgemental bullshit-detector crap when he’d avoided calling Lydia. Jackson wasn’t supposed to call him out.

“Where are you taking my kid.” It was a question, technically, but there definitely wasn’t a question mark at the end of it. It was way too clipped for that.

“It’s a surprise!” Malia and Scott said in unison, having decided to join in and help their dad out. Or dig him deeper. Whatever.

“But there’s no ice cream,” Isaac added, speaking more clearly, but with the lisp he had when he popped fangs. Little guy probably had granola stuck in his teeth.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Jackson said again, and he was starting to lisp too. Wonderful.

“Fáelán called, okay?” Suburbs started to thin out around them, giving way to more trees. “They have some questions about stuff, and Deaton wanted to talk to me in person. My dad’s at work ‘til six, so there’s nobody to watch the kids, and when I asked if it’s cool for them to tag along, Deaton gave me the okay. Happy now?”

The rumbling growl coming through the phone wasn’t even mildly threatening. Stiles had hung around shifters long enough to know when he was being laughed at, no matter how feral it sounded.

“Oh, man—” Now that he’d started, Jackson was nearly choking with laughter, the _dick_. “Happy? I’m _ecstatic_ , Stilinski, thank you. You’re taking Isaac to see Fáelán, for the first time? This is like Christmas, three weeks early.”

Yeah, Lydia was going to kill him. It was going to be messy. She was going to kill him, and she was going to _geld_ him. Probably not in that order.

“Good talk,” Stiles snapped, jabbing a finger at the _end call_ button.

The kids were going to be in awe of the fancy gate, the big vaulted ceiling in the foyer, and the amazing playground. They were all sharp as whips; he had no doubt they were going to figure out that Fáelán was an elementary school, and that they might get to come back regularly.

If there was anything else but his kids’ futures potentially resting on this meeting, Stiles would never have considered robbing Lydia of experiencing these moments herself. Whether Isaac flipped shit with excitement, or got scared as _Big School_ suddenly became a more concrete reality, Lydia should have been there for it all.

He’d told Deaton he needed a half hour, when the drive to Fáelán really took less than half that. At the time, he’d been allowing for traffic, the possibility of the pee break that never came, and a dozen other factors. Now, with Fáelán’s high fence just coming into sight, and at least fifteen minutes to spare, Stiles checked his mirrors and pulled over, moving as far onto to the shoulder of the road as possible and clicking on his hazards.

“Gimme a sec, guys.” He yanked his phone out of its dash mount, typing out a text with lightning speed.

> **To Queen Lydia:  
>  ** _Nothing wrong w kids but need to talk asap v important. Call me???_

The cramp of guilt in his stomach wasn’t going to stop him from meeting with Deaton, but it was enough to make him do this, against his better judgement. He’d give her maybe ten minutes to notice the message before he had to go.

He was being so selfish. Lydia was his best friend, and the best mom he knew. She’d understand, eventually, but she’d never get this back.

Three agonizing minutes and about a dozen thumb wars with the kids later, Stiles nearly had a heart attack when his phone started belting out a familiar guitar riff.

“Don’t be mad,” was what he opened with, which in hindsight, wasn’t his best decision.

“Give me a reason not to be.” Stiles hunched in his seat with the phone pressed against his ear, miserable in the knowledge that he deserved the furious hiss in Lydia’s voice. He was also completely determined to go to this meeting, but that was beside the point. “What the _hell_ , Stiles?”

“Deaton called. Said there are questions about my application, wants to meet in person. You know I gotta do this, Lyds.”

Heavy quiet answered him, but the pause was only a fraction as long as Jackson’s had been. Stiles had never met a single person quicker on the uptake than Lydia Martin.

“Isaac is with you?”

Stiles licked his lips, pinching the bottom one between his teeth for a second, hard enough to hurt. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Go talk to Deaton.”

Wait, _what_?

“Lyds…” Lydia wasn’t yelling, and she wasn’t doing that deadly soft voice thing either. She just sounded calm. Honestly, earnestly calm. Stiles felt lightheaded.

“This is important,” Lydia said, and he could imagine her waving her hand at his arguments like she was swatting away an annoying fly. “Our babies are going to kindergarten, Stiles. Together. Go talk to Deaton.”

“Oh my god, I love you.”

“I cannot believe you interrupted my class for this. I love you too, you idiot.”

“You’re not supposed to call people mean names,” Malia piped up, because while name-calling might be verboten, eavesdropping was apparently no big deal.

 

* * *

 

The kids’ eyes looked like saucers, and they were following beside him in a tight, fidgety huddle when Stiles was led into Deaton’s office again. They weren’t generally bad in crowds, but it was the end of the school day, and the corridors were full of way more kids than they saw in preschool.

Deaton stood when the four of them entered, as did the tall, brunette woman in the patterned dress. The little girl sitting in the other guest chair, swinging her feet, didn’t look up from the colouring book spread over her lap.

“Ah, sorry!” Stiles’ sneakers squeaked against the floor as he skidded to an awkward stop, half inside the doorway. “The admin assistant sent me in, but I’m early, I know. Sorry. I’ll just wait out here, no problem—”

“It’s fine, Mr. Stilinski. Please, come in.” Despite Deaton’s warm welcome, Stiles hesitated. The woman was looking right at him, with what seemed to be a speculative sort of gleam in her dark eyes. She was incredibly familiar somehow, but it took Stiles a moment to put a name to her long, striking face.

“I’d like you meet Talia Hale,” Deaton said, at almost the precise second Stiles realised who the woman was, and where he’d seen her before.

They’d never met formally, but Stiles had lived in Beacon Hills nearly his entire life, except the three years he’d spent at Berkeley. There probably wasn’t a person in the entirety of Beacon County who hadn’t at least heard of the Hale family. Before shifters had gone public, the Hales had already been well established, well respected, and very well connected. Stiles had been too young at the time to remember the uproar when it all came to light: one of the community's founding families were, and always had been, more shifter than not.

The Hales were still one of the biggest names in town, even if they didn’t get invited to all the same parties anymore. Hale money made up a sizable percentage of annual public donations to municipal projects, local organizations, and charities, and they even had their hands in city government. They were philanthropists and community leaders, who just happened to get a bit more hirsute and outdoorsy once a month. Or, some of them did, at any rate; the extended family was large enough that a few humans were pretty much guaranteed.

Of all the things he knew about Talia Hale— freelance journalist, vocal advocate for shifter rights, and the only shifter to hold a seat on Beacon Hills City Council, among other things— she definitely wasn’t human.

“Wha— Sorry, hi.” Quickly making sure the kids had all piled safely into the office, which was starting to get cramped, Stiles reached out and accepted the offer of a handshake that Talia extended. Her palm was warm and dry, and her grip was pleasantly solid. “It’s great to meet you, Ms. Hale. I’m Stiles.”

“Talia,” she said, with one corner of her lips twitching into a smile. “I’m very glad to meet you, too, Stiles. This is Cora, my youngest. Cora?”

“Hey there, Cora.” The girl’s head jerked up briefly when Stiles spoke, long enough to notice that she had her mother’s deep brown eyes, and the same smattering of freckles across her face. Then she was back to fastidiously filling in Hello Kitty’s fur with a grey crayon.

It wasn’t the most enthusiastic greeting he’d ever gotten, but Stiles had always respected that kids, just like adults, sometimes just weren’t feeling the whole socializing thing. He waved a hand out towards his own kids, letting it rest on Malia’s shoulder when the girl started crowding against the back of his thigh.

“These two are Scott and Malia, and this is Isaac— we’re all hanging out while his mom and dad are at work.”

“Well, hello.” When Talia took a step forward and dropped gracefully into a crouch, studying the kids at their level, a small fist started pulling on the back of Stiles’ hoodie. Malia was rigid under his palm, and he squeezed her closer.

“Princess Lia? You okay, baby?” Malia nodded jerkily, without trying to hide her face against him, which seemed like a good sign. In fact, she was staring straight at Talia.

His daughter wasn’t blinking.

“It’s alright, pup.” The woman’s eyes brightened to a rich, burning red as she addressed Malia. Both Scott and Isaac scooted closer together, Scott looped his arm tightly through his sister’s, and suddenly Stiles had a brand new appendage made of squirmy children. “I’m happy to meet you all.”

“You’re Alpha,” Scott whispered, while the two young shifter stayed completely silent. There was an urge simmering in Stiles gut to step in, to do something to stop his kids from being wigged out by a stranger. But there was also something deeper, maybe much older, scrabbling around in the back of his brain that was screaming at him to _stay perfectly still_.

His super daditude was always going to win out over any relics of primeval, instinctual fears, as long as Stiles had anything to say about it.

Deftly unhooking himself from Malia’s clutches— which may have included claws, but he was a master at escaping extra-pointy snuggles with minimal losses to his wardrobe— he stepped back just enough to pop a squat behind all three kids, and dragged them into a big, sloppy hug. They burrowed in immediately, and Stiles fixed Talia with a long, steady stare over the top of Scotty’s head.

“We don’t mind waiting outside, Dr. Deaton,” he said, perfectly pleasant. “If you’re busy.”

Talia’s smile widened, and she rose to her feet. Deaton didn’t seem perturbed at all, but Stiles had a feeling it would take some cataclysmic shit to rattle the dude.

“Actually, Mr. Stilinski, it was Talia who requested this meeting. Among their other generous donations to our facilities, the Hales have created several scholarship and bursary opportunities for our students.”

Oh _fuck_.

“It’s nothing dire,” Talia said, sounding distinctly amused. “I promise. I’d just like to have a chat— get to know you. But not here. No offense, Alan, but your office isn’t built for this kind of crowd.”

“Classes should be mostly cleared for the day by now,” Deaton said, checking his watch.

“Good.” There was an oxblood red leather jacket hanging on the back of an empty chair, and Talia draped it over her arm. “I think I can talk my brother into watching the pups. Maybe we can walk the grounds, get some fresh air. Stiles?”

“Your brother?” Stiles had only met one other Hale in the past week, that he knew of, and he’d met the guy in this very building. Those were decent enough odds to warrant taking a guess. Luckily the name was on the tip of his tongue. “You mean Peter?”

Humming an absent affirmative, Talia started gathering up the crayons strewn in a small heap on Deaton’s desk, tucking them all away in their cardboard box. “He mentioned you’d met. Cora, sweetie, let’s go see Uncle Peter.”

Peter had mentioned him? Of course he had; their one and only conversation had consisted of Stiles attempting to make a lame joke about the kindergarten buddy system, then saying _fuck_ in the middle of a busy playground full of kids with shifter hearing.

“It’s done,” the girl said, holding up the colouring page and dutifully passing her mother the last crayon. The cartoon cat was now dark grey, with a pink ballerina outfit and yellow bow. The border of flowers ringing the image had been done in alternating blue and purple, and all the colours stayed neatly within the black guidelines. It was a really good job for her age, which Stiles pegged at about the same as his brood, somewhere around four or five years old.

“Hello Kitty isn’t grey, she’s white.” Malia wriggled around in Stiles’ arms, with a snippy tone to her voice now that she’d found it again. She was probably embarrassed about her reaction to Talia, and that tended to bring her defenses out in less than productive ways.

“Hobbes is Uncle Peter’s cat,” Cora sniped back, not missing a beat or backing down. “And he’s grey, and he’s got the softest fur, and his eyes are big, and yellow, and pretty like mine.”

Cora’s eyes went gold in a flash, and Stiles tensed, ready to break up a squabble before it had a chance to really get going. By some miracle, however, Malia decided today was the perfect opportunity to make a friend instead of a mortal enemy.

“They _are_ pretty!” Stiles let go when her wiggling increased, and stopped himself from grabbing the back of her jacket as she all but lunged at the other girl, laughing like a hyena. “Mine too, see? And Isaac’s, but Scott’s are always brown, ‘cause he’s human like my dad, and my grandpa, and my Mel.”

“What’s a Mel?” Cora asked, sliding out of her seat right into Malia’s space. Physical boundaries could be quite a fluid concept for shifters, and though the boys were still hanging back somewhat, Malia grabbing Scotty’s arm and reeling him in seemed to break the ice.

“Well, I think that’s the little ones sorted,” Talia said, slipping into her jacket, while Deaton shrugged a zip-up sweater over his shirt and tie. Stiles was forcibly reminded that he hadn’t expected this meeting, nor had he enjoyed the benefits of styling advice from Lydia Martin this time around. His jeans were a sickly faded burgundy, skinny fit but bunching at the ankles over the tops of his Vans, and his t-shirt had _Life of the Party_ scrawled around a 1-Up mushroom. The newest, least worn-out part of the whole outfit was his grey striped hoodie, which the kids had given him for Father’s Day; it wasn’t dressy by any stretch of the imagination, but at least it fit better than some of the rattier, baggier options he could have grabbed that morning.

He was a shabby, nerd-chic hobo dad, whose hair was probably a nightmare from the beanie he’d left in the car, and now here he was, hanging out with the real grown-ups. The kind with polished leather shoes, 401ks, and his kids’ futures in their hands. Chatting. _Judging_. How was this his life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I mentioned Hales and werewolf politics in the last chapter's notes, but we only got one of those this time. Sorry about that-- you'll get more of the former and a bunch of the latter in Chapter 5, I promise.
> 
> Comments and kudos give me the warmest fuzzies, if you're so inclined. Thanks for reading!


	5. Wolf At The Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion of **past character death** and other unpleasantness in this chapter, btdubs.
> 
> Two things, because this chapter gets sort of heavy:
> 
> 1\. There's a long author's note at the end, because I can't shut up about stuff.  
> 2\. You're getting another chapter tomorrow, which is much lighter and funnier.

The kids were all best buddies for life by the time they made it to the classroom Stiles remembered from his last visit. This time, the door was wide open, and a voice was filtering out into the hall.

“—not going to help you, because you’re giving up. Try some things; figure it out. Or hey, I could always just hang you up on a coat hook and call it a day. That works for me.”

“Oh, Peter?” Talia swept into the room like she owned the place, which… did she? Stiles still wasn’t one hundred percent clear what sort of sway the Hales’ sizable donations had bought them here. “I’ve brought you some new friends.”

“Not interested. I’m already at my quota for the year.” When Stiles stepped out of the hallway, the first sight that greeted him was Peter Hale, bent over and piling craft supplies into the lowest drawer of a plastic storage tower. Whoever had sold him those jeans deserved a round of applause, or maybe a medal.

Stiles’ kids, plus Isaac, were all busy gawking at the colourful classroom, but Cora immediately broke away from the group. Her dark french braids swung out behind her as she ran up and thrust the colouring page at her uncle.

“Well hello, sweetheart.” Peter took the page, sliding his free hand around to cup around the nape of her neck. “Is this Hobbes? Pink really is his colour, isn’t it?”

An ass fine enough to make angels and strippers weep, a level of snark that made him far too appealing to Stiles’ own asshole-ish tendencies, and painfully cute with kids— this was unfair. This was cruel and unusual. The dude was a goddamn menace, and Stiles was a weak, weak man, whose very healthy libido was stuck in a state of long term quasi-hibernation, brought on by being the overworked single dad of two five year olds.

Besides the ones they’d brought in with them, there was one other kid left in the classroom. Derek, the glum little dude Stiles remembered from the playground, was tucked into one of the desks, with safety scissors and a bunch of construction paper pieces spread out in front of him. Some of them had been folded into shapes, but Stiles had no clue what they were meant to be.

“What do you have there, Derbear?” Talia said, and was treated to a look of abject betrayal as Derek’s eyes darted between his mother and Stiles’ brood.

“ _Mom_ ,” he groaned, slapping his scissors down dramatically. Stiles absolutely dreaded the day his kids started being embarrassed by the plethora of nicknames he’d bestowed on them over the years. He lived in hope that they might take after their old man and embrace the monikers, but they didn’t have the same impetus. Neither of them had to worry about butchered velarization whenever people tried to pronounce their first names.

Talia carried on as if nothing was amiss, motioning at the boy. “This is my Derek, and these three are Cora’s new friends. I’m sure Uncle Peter can find something to keep you all entertained for a little while.”

Peter looked up from where he was carefully slipping the colouring page into a brown leather satchel on his desk. “Have I been promoted from free babysitting to free daycare, now? Fantastic. Hello, Stiles.”

“Uh, hey.” Stiles gave an awkward little wave before he could stop himself, not really expecting to be addressed directly, then strongly considered breaking his own hand off at the wrist. “I can keep the kids with me if it’s a problem. They’re good— not runners or anything.”

“Oh, Peter always appreciates fresh minions,” Talia said, while Peter rolled his eyes so hard even his neck got in on the action. Instead of outright refusing, he came around to the front of his desk, sitting on the edge and crossing his arms.

“Come in, pups,” he said. “Feel free to explore, poke around, or pull up a seat with Derek.”

None of them tended to be terribly shy, and they’d been in preschool long enough to recognize the same sort of kid-friendly spaces and acclimatize quickly. They didn’t seem to react to Peter in the skittish way they’d done with Talia, either, which was a very good thing, especially if they were actually accepted at Fáelán. Malia was sniffing audibly, dragging her brother by the hand while she started wandering across the room, always nosy in more ways than one. Isaac was staring up at the foam solar system hanging from the ceiling as though he’d seen the face of god.

“Hold up, Scotty.” There was one more thing Stiles needed to do before he would be comfortable leaving his kids. By now, Scott knew the drill, and reached into the pocket of his cargo pants before Stiles could even ask.

“Got it, Dad.” He gave his inhaler a rattle, then tucked it away again, entirely distracted by the shelves of books and toy bins that he and his sister had discovered.

“Good job, buddy.” Turning to Peter, Stiles shrugged. “Asthma. He shouldn’t need it, but if he does, he and Lia both know how to use the inhaler. I mentioned it in his application.” The last part was directed to Deaton, who was lingering in the doorway.

“All our staff are trained in CPR and first aid, at a minimum,” Deaton said. “Peter is a certified first responder, I believe.”

“Don’t spread that around, Alan,” Peter drawled. “People will start expecting me to be helpful, and that’ll only end in tears.”

 

* * *

 

“So, tell me, Stiles.” They were outside, slowly strolling around the side of the school towards the empty playground. Stiles trailed beside Talia, hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting, while Deaton ambled along a short distance away. “How has it been, raising one wolf in a family of humans? It’s certainly not a common arrangement.”

It was challenging not to bristle at the question; he’d heard the same thing too many times to count, phrased in a thousand different ways. Sometimes it was simple curiosity, but he’d faced more than enough insults framed as ‘advice’ and just flat out judgemental assholes, too.

Humans could be born to shifters, without any obvious rhyme or reason. There was never any guarantee that a shifter couple would have a shifter kid, and the odds decreased if one of the parents was human. There were popular rumours that human births were less likely in older, established shifter families— like the Hales— but according to everything Stiles had read, there simply wasn’t enough evidence to prove claims like that. At least, not enough publically available evidence, and no Pack had volunteered anything more concrete.

The reverse wasn’t true: shifters weren’t randomly born in otherwise completely human families. And Stiles had never heard of a young shifter being adopted by humans either. He’d googled it, when Malia was a squirmy, poopy little peanut who suddenly started sprouting sideburns and shredding her pacifiers, and he ran on fumes for months trying to learn everything he could about how to keep her happy and healthy. Looking for some other human schmuck fumbling through the same things had seemed sensible, at the time. When his epic google-fu had turned up jack shit, he’d quietly appropriated his dad’s police resources to access the adoption records for the county, and then the records for the whole state.

That was also how he’d found out Jackson’s middle name was Gulliver, which was hilarious enough to make the entire thing worth nearly getting flagged by the FBI. The complete lack of any other useful information was a bummer, though.

Ever since they’d gone public, shifter kids were always adopted by shifter families. No exceptions. And, of course, there weren’t any records to prove whether or not that had been true before the big reveal.

 _Certainly not a common arrangement_. Talia wasn’t exaggerating. Even the few blogs Stiles found— single human parents with shifter kids, like him— had all said the same thing when he’d gotten in contact. Get help. Find a Pack.

The consensus had been that Stiles was fundamentally incapable of caring for his own daughter.

Fuck that noise. He’d never been very good at being told what he couldn’t do.

Stiles suddenly realized that he’d taken too long to answer the question, at exactly the same moment that he noticed Talia was blatantly studying him.

“Keeps me in shape,” he blurted, then kept going, because feeling defensive and wrong-footed always brought out his best decision making skills. “I mean, I’m not saying she’s not weird. The kid can literally fall asleep anywhere, and she won’t eat sandwiches unless they’re cut in squares instead of triangles— treats triangles like poison, I swear. Oh, and for about four months, when she was like a year old? Only surefire way to get her to stop crying was playing copious amounts of Johnny Cash. So, so weird.”

Talia’s expression didn’t change, despite his sarcasm; the woman still looked attentive and intrigued. Perfectly pleasant. Stiles couldn’t hold back his grimace, straining under the placid, tolerant scrutiny.

“Listen, if you want me to say it was a nightmare,” he said, kicking a loose bit of gravel off the paved path. “It wasn’t. It isn’t. Kids are hard, sometimes. Scotty used to have such selective hearing when it came to being told things he didn’t want to hear, that I actually had his ears tested before I realized he was just being bratty. Malia used to lick shopping carts. They both run me ragged, and they can be sneaky little jerks, but they’re the best part of my life. Both of them. And maybe we’re not a _common arrangement_ , but I wouldn’t change a single goddamn thing, okay?”

“Okay.” He’d started glaring out at the playground rather than focusing on Talia’s infuriating calm, but that single word had Stiles’ head snapping around. Talia’s smile had turned toothy, genuinely amused; strangely enough, it reminded Stiles of Peter. “You’re certainly fierce as any wolf, Stiles.”

“Oh my god.” He was trying to get on this woman’s good side, not tear a strip off of her. Oh god. _Shit_. “Sorry. I just— We get a lot of flack, from humans and shifters, and I can get snappy about it, but you weren’t even... Gah, sorry.”

“It’s not a problem.” They’d arrived at the edge of the play area, where grass and pavement gave way to smooth, poured rubber. Talia kept walking toward the equipment without pausing. “Never apologize for being protective of your children. Here, sit with me.”

There was a row of swings, set apart from the jungle gym, and Talia settled into one, immediately kicking off gently with her tall, brown boots. Stiles blinked at her, then glanced over at Deaton, but the guy was just standing by the monkeybars, busy typing something into his blackberry.

It was awkward, folding his long limbs down into the short swing; his feet dragged unless he stretched his legs straight out, or tried to tuck them up under himself. He was a flailing baby deer next to Talia’s fluid grace, but it didn’t take shifter reflexes to make him look clumsy. He managed being a dork perfectly fine on his own, thanks.

And now he was swaying lazily on playground swings with Talia Hale. This was surreal.

“Tell me about your pups,” she said, tilting her face up toward the afternoon sun. “Why it’s important to you that they come to Fáelán.”

“It’s the best integrated school in the state.” Sure, he was cribbing lines from Lydia now, but he’d done his own independent verification, too. “Maybe the best on the West Coast. Is it surprising that I want my kids to have the best education possible?”

Talia hummed, swinging slowly, but with more momentum than Stiles. “Not at all. And it has to be integrated? You wouldn’t want them separated for even a few hours a day, even if they come home together?”

“Shifter segregation should be criminal.” That was more blunt than he’d planned, but once the words were out there, he didn’t want to soften them. “It’s hate legislation. It’s fear and ignorance making people into bigots, and we need integration to help stop that. That isn’t a debate— keeping people apart isn’t the way to foster understanding and acceptance, on either side. It’s never worked before, with any other minorities, and apparently it’s too much to hope for that we could learn from, I don’t know, _history_. But I don’t know what I expected, when we still can’t even handle interhuman race relations without people getting killed. _Christ_ , it’s so stupid, and it’s a fucking disgrace that it ever happened, let alone that it’s still happening now.”

His next breath was deep, shuddering, and tasted ever so faintly metallic. There weren’t many better ways to get him riled.

“Tell me about what happened to your mother,” Talia said, blindsiding him before Stiles even had the chance to apologize for cursing. His sneakers scraped the ground when he forgot to lift his feet, and his swing jerked crookedly.

“What?” Stiles shook his head, tightening his grip on the chains until the smooth, cool metal bit under his fingernails. The pain was sharp and bright, zinging down his arms. “I talked about it in my application. What else— there’s nothing else to say about it.”

“I’d like to hear it from you, if that’s alright.”

It wasn’t alright. It wasn’t even slightly alright. On a scale of zero to ten, with zero being no big deal, and ten being an unlubed prostate exam with a cactus, this was some sort of ridiculous, astronomical number like Lydia dealt with on the daily. This was, like, ten to the power of _fuck no_.

“She was murdered,” Stiles said, because he’d kill and die for his kids. He’d do this for them too. “When I was six. A couple of cowardly, sadistic jackoffs caught her in the woods outside city limits— it was a full moon, and she was out for a run. They shot her in the back, they strung her up by the neck, and they cut her in half. Nobody found her for two days.”

He was quiet for a minute, and Talia let the silence rest between them, undisturbed. He almost appreciated that, except that she was the reason he was fucking talking about this in the first place.

“So, yeah,” he said eventually, coughing to clear the hoarseness from his voice. “Hate and fear are what makes people into monsters, not claws and fangs. There are plenty of asshole humans, just like there are asshole shifters; nobody’s got a monopoly on being dangerous or vicious. But the less we interact, the more we divide our communities, the less willing people are going to be to see that and the worse things are going to get.”

“You’ve read my book.” Stiles glanced over, and Talia was smiling at him again, but sweeter this time. Maybe pleasantly surprised. He shrugged.

“‘[ _Wolf At The Door_](http://pibroch.tumblr.com/post/123927075301),’” he said. “‘ _Post Anagnorisis America And The Widening Divide._ ’ Yeah. It’s always one of my staff picks at work.” He didn’t mention that he’d cited it extensively for his honours thesis in university; coming across as a fanboy wasn’t really his goal here.

Talia tapped two fingers against her chest, just above the neckline of her dress. _Heartbeat_. “You believe it, too.”

“Because it’s true.”

“And you blame ignorance and fear for your mother’s murder?”

“I blame the bastards who did it.” Stiles took some vindictive pleasure knowing that at least three of them were never getting out of prison, even if he knew in his gut that the cops hadn’t caught them all. “They were ignorant and hateful, sure, and they might have been like that anyway. But I don’t think we need to be raising more generations of kids to be just as ignorant, scaremongering and laying down bigger fences between _us_ and _them_.”

“I was ten,” Talia said suddenly. “When the first Packs came forward and made themselves known. When the Anagnorisis started. I remember, my father came and took me out of school in the middle of music class. I’d never heard his heart beating so fast in my life.

“We locked ourselves in the house for three days, until my mother insisted we shouldn’t hide. That we couldn’t hide forever. You wouldn’t remember any of it, you’re too young, but you’ve seen footage of the protests, I imagine. Heard stories.”

At Stiles’ nod, Talia continued. “I don’t even remember all of it, myself, but I do remember that I wasn’t allowed back at school. Wasn’t allowed to see any of my human friends, except a few whose parents still let them come to our house. I spent the better part of six months taking classes in the boiler room of Beacon Hills High School, along with every other young wolf in town, from kindergarten to twelfth grade. For the first two months, they locked us in every morning, and barring supervised bathroom breaks, wouldn’t unlock the door until the end of the day.”

Stiles had no idea what to say. He’d been in that boiler room: it was dark, musty, and noisy. It stank like stale air and harsh industrial cleaners, even to his human nose. He couldn’t even imagine a group of shifter kids trying to learn in that hellhole.

“Alan,” Talia called, leaning back in her swing. “Give me the papers, please.”

Deaton came over, reaching into one of the pockets of his sweater. He pulled out a pair of envelopes, bent loosely in half, and unfolded them before placing them in Talia’s outstretched hand.

“Here.” The envelopes were made of thick, off-white paper, lightly textured and printed with Fáelán Academy’s address and their triple spiral logo in one corner. When Talia held them out toward him, Stiles accepted them gingerly.

“The Fáelán Academy Scholarship Committee,” Talia said, watching Stiles with her temple resting against one of the swing’s chains. “Of which I am a member, is pleased to offer Malia and Scott Stilinski full academic scholarships, covering their total tuition costs per year, and redeemable every year for the entire duration of their enrollment at Fáelán. The letter probably outlines it with more panache, but that’s the jist.”

“What.” His limbs were numb. Stiles had no idea how he was still gripping the envelopes like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver, because he couldn’t feel his fingers. “You— _what_ —”

“Congratulations, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton said, and with one broad hand, patted Stiles on the shoulder firmly enough to keep him from tumbling backwards out of the swing. “The other letter is an acceptance of enrollment for both Malia and Scott. I hope you’ll consider Fáelán; we’d certainly be happy to count both your children among our students in the fall.”

“ _What?_ ” He was obviously dreaming, that was the only explanation. But he could read the neat print on the envelopes, and a quick glance down showed his hands looked completely normal. Shaking like leaves in a stiff breeze, but no extra fingers. “I didn’t— I only applied for one scholarship, and that was only for the year. One year, for one kid, and I’d pay for the other one myself, but this… Is this for real?”

“One hundred percent real,” Talia assured him, and Stiles wondered how bad it would look if he just burst into tears right there, sitting on the swings. “I like you, Stiles. But more than that, I think your family deserves this. The scholarship committee agrees.”

“Oh my _god_.” His knees were jello, but he hauled himself to his feet anyway, and managed not to go down in a pile. “Oh _my_ god. Can I hug you?”

Talia just laughed, standing up and opening her arms wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter benefits from some supplementary information, so here we go:
> 
> The “big reveal” of the existence of werewolves was mentioned in passing before, but not this directly. I hope the story itself does/will do a good job of explaining this without being clunky, but I’ll clarify a few details here, too.
> 
> Twenty five years before this story starts, werewolf Packs came forward and announced their existence to the general population; this was later called the Anagnorisis, a critical moment of discovery. Most people don’t call it that in general conversation, since it’s a mouthful and honestly sort of pretentious, but you know, werewolves tend to be dramatic.
> 
> Putting in the context of our dudes, Stiles was only about a year old at the time. Peter was seven. And like Talia says, young werewolves were immediately taken out of school— first by their parents/Pack for safety’s sake, but then officially, by the government and school admin. The first Shifter-only schools were cobbled together in a few months, and werewolves themselves quickly made all efforts to improve this new educational structure. Many adult werewolves also lost their jobs, some permanently. This will be mentioned later, but there are still some jobs shifters are not permitted to have. Peter wouldn’t be allowed to teach in a human-only elementary school, for instance. Shifters are all required to be registered with the government, and there are certain legal restrictions imposed on them.
> 
> Another important point: for the record, Peter takes issue with the comparisons Talia and Stiles draw between shifter discrimination and interhuman discrimination. This will be discussed more when we get to Chapter 7 and onward. As the author, I’m cognizant that using supernatural/fantasy discrimination as an analogy for real world discrimination is potentially problematic. I’m trying to craft what I imagine the reaction might be to suddenly discovering werewolves live among us, without making werewolves entirely analogous to the real experiences of real humans. It’s not entirely the same, as Peter will try to explain later on. I am totally open to being called out on something if I misstep with this, okay?
> 
> Also, this story is going to be mostly cute, funny, relatively romantic stuff, plus Peter’s yet-to-be-revealed plot. The world-building, politics, social justice, serious stuff sort of sneaked in, and it’s going to be a thread running through the whole piece, but it’s not the core. 
> 
> Final bonus note: Chapter 7 is Peter POV, and I’m fucking thrilled about it. I hope you will be too.


	6. Duck, Duck, Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the bonus chapter I mentioned. If you haven't read Chapter 5 yet, go back and do that! I'll wait here.

Stiles didn’t actually skip down the hall to pick up his kids, but it was a close thing.

Really, it was a struggle to keep himself as calm as he wanted to be. He had every intention of playing it cool, not just because he didn’t want to spring this on his kids, but because neither Deaton nor Talia had said one thing about Isaac. It wasn’t as though Stiles could ask, either; Isaac wasn’t his son, for all the kid was totally an honorary Stilinski. Stiles had made him a shirt and everything.

It was day-glo orange, with _Team Stilinski_ splashed across the front, and _Isaac 03_ on the back, all done in blue iron-on vinyl. For a week after Stiles and the kids had given it to him, Isaac refused to take it off for anything but baths.

It was getting too small now, and the letters were flaking, but Stiles already bought a replacement; it was wrapped, waiting for Christmas. This one was truly vicious neon pink, and he couldn’t wait to see the looks on Lydia and Jackson’s faces when they opened their own matching pair, which Isaac would insist they wear. Group barbecues were going to be an utter joy next summer.

Stiles refused to consider a future where Isaac wouldn’t get accepted at Fáelán too. It wasn’t a money issue that worried him, because god knew the Martin-Whittemores weren’t hurting there, but the small class sizes Deaton had mentioned before suddenly seemed a bit concerning. How many applications did Fáelán refuse every year, because of space restraints?

Beacon County had a larger number of shifter families than was considered average for a region of its size and population, but most of them would probably be attending public shifter schools. And while Stiles hoped that more human families would consider sending their kids to integrated schools, it was likely that the human students at Fáelán would almost all be the siblings of shifters.

 _No_. He wasn’t going to let himself worry. Lydia had phenomenal cosmic powers when it came to getting the things she wanted. Everything was going to work out.

Stepping back into the kindergarten classroom on Talia’s heels, Stiles reminded himself to channel his inner jedi, focusing on peace and serenity instead of the shitstorm of emotions swirling in his chest. He needn’t have bothered schooling his face into a normal expression, however, since not a single person even glanced over towards the door when they entered.

All the kids, plus Peter, were gathered in the open area of foam mats. Everyone was sitting in a circle, butts on the floor and legs folded, except Malia, who was walking around the outside, gently tapping heads as she passed.

“Duck, duck, duck…”

Stiles had to slap a hand over his mouth to stifle what would have been a painfully loud honk of laughter when his baby girl stretched out her little arm, bopped Peter on the back of his neatly arranged hair, and shouted “Goose!” at the top of her lungs.

Then Malia was off like a shot, and to his credit, Peter wasn’t far behind, leaping to his feet like a damn jungle cat. The man was obviously holding back the speed somewhat, either out of deference for the age of his prey or the fact that they were indoors, but he still came perilously close to nabbing Malia by the back of her t-shirt. She dodged him like the feisty little bullet she was, feinting left, then dropping into a roll and skidding into the spot Peter had left empty in the circle.

The whole thing had been over in seconds; the kids’ previous squeals and laughter erupted into cheering, with nobody clapping louder than Scotty. His flushed cheeks and the sweaty pieces of hair clinging to his forehead meant he’d probably given it his all during his own turns, and he looked ecstatic.

“Well done,” Peter said, leaning down to ruffle Malia’s own perpetually tousled mane. It had been growing out since the undercut extravaganza, and fell just barely to her shoulders in loose, sandy brown waves that never looked like the Stilinskis owned a comb. “Okay, pups. Looks like we’re done for now. Up.”

The grumbling wasn’t as bad as Stiles had feared, but the kids were running on nothing except excitement and granola bars, and probably eager for dinner. Still, it wouldn’t be a proper Stilinski venture without some drama.

There was something supremely suspicious about the way Isaac and Scott converged on Derek, one clinging to each arm as they whispered furtively into the other boy’s ears. Luckily, this wasn’t Stiles’ first rodeo.

“Nope,” he said, fixing both his boys with a firm look and shaking his head. “Don’t even think about it. You’re not smuggling Derek into my car— what have I told you guys about kidnapping?”

“We kidnapped Isaac forever ago,” Scott countered, with a definite petulant edge and his fingers tangled in the fabric of Isaac’s shirt where his arm was looped over Derek’s shoulders. Isaac nodded, enthusiastically and entirely unhelpfully. Derek looked dazed by the whole exchange, but the way he was leaning into the manhandling made Stiles’ heart melt just a tiny bit.

“And we got to keep him,” Malia added, and a glance over in her direction confirmed that she and Cora had arms wrapped around each other like they were trying to fuse together.

“Oh for the love of—” Stiles scrubbed one hand over his jaw, turning to Talia. “There was no kidnapping. There might have been a playdate or two where I ended up bringing home an extra kid by accident, but it all got sorted out, everybody laughed about it, it was _fine.”_

Talia was chuckling at him behind her fingers, and Peter and Deaton looked varying degrees of amused, which was the best possible reaction, really. Stiles had two letters burning a hole in his pocket, and under absolutely no circumstances was he going to fuck up now.

“If it’s okay with your dad,” Talia said, once she composed herself. The kids didn’t shrink back from her, but Stiles didn’t miss the way their eyes widened. “And with your parents too, Isaac, then we’d love to have you out at the house sometime. You could come visit Derek and Cora, and my older daughter Laura might be there.”

“And maybe the Hales can come over and play at our place too,” Stiles added, sparing a quick look over at Talia. She inclined her head, still smiling. Apparently he was setting up playdates with the frigging _Hales_ now, because this day hadn’t been bizarre enough yet. Oh _god_.

“Uncle Peter, too?” Malia said, unwinding one arm just enough to grab hold of Peter’s wrist.

 _Uncle Peter_? Seriously? That wasn’t a title his spawn bestowed lightly, but it was probably just the Hale kids’ influence.

“Perhaps,” Peter answered, and allowed the girl to hang on, without correcting the moniker. The smile he turned on Stiles was a sharper version of his sister’s, but at least he seemed tolerant of Stiles’ kids zeal.

“Yeah, sure, maybe,” Stiles said, noncommittal enough that it probably wouldn’t ping as untrue, and was immensely relieved to see his little octopuses start to release their prey. “We’ll see, okay? Now, the Hales probably have to get home for dinner, and we definitely do if you guys want that movie tonight.”

“And brownies!”

“Yes, Isaac. And brownies.” It was always great when Stiles ended up looking like he was bribing his kids to do what he told them. Just wonderful. “Say goodbye to the Hales, and say thank you to Mr. Hale, Ms. Hale, and Dr. Deaton.”

Of course the kids each chose a different order to say their thanks, so what could have been an adorable Von Trapp-esque chorus turned into a raucous chatter of noise.

“They’re very sweet,” Talia said, leaning close to Stiles, while the kids were piling over each other, saying their goodbyes with an abundance of scenting and hugs. “And you truly are all welcome at our house.”

“Thanks.” Stiles had only seen the Hale house once, when he was in Junior High and he and a few guys from school snuck onto the Preserve in the middle of the night, just to poke around like the idiots they were. They’d heard howling after less than an hour of tripping over tree roots, and booked it back to their bikes. “You guys too. The kids really seem to have hit it off, and Casa Stilinski can be a pretty fun time.”

And that was how he ended up exchanging phone numbers with _Talia freaking Hale_.

 

* * *

 

“Lydia!” Dinner had been made and devoured, brownies were currently being decimated, and the kids were lumped into a puppy pile in front of the TV. Stiles finally had a minute to himself while they cuddled and got wholly enamoured with _Brave_ for the billionth time, so of course he immediately shut himself in the bathroom and plastered his phone against his ear. “Lydia, oh my _god_ —”

“Breathe, Stiles!” Thank god she could hear the elation in his voice, and didn’t freak out at his frantic greeting. “You’re going to have a stroke. It’s good news?”

“ _This better be fucking life-or-death, ballbag_ ,” Jackson said from somewhere in the background, but closer than Stiles had anticipated. He sounded pissed.

Immediately, Stiles’ face broke into a shit-eating grin, and he leaned back against the sink.

“ _Ooooh_...” He drew the word out, long and teasing. “I’m not interrupting something, am I?”

“Nothing immensely thrilling,” Lydia said sweetly, and oh shit, that was _ice cold_. Stiles heard a low growl echo across the call, then Lydia hissing a warning before she continued like nothing was happening. “So, what’s the news, Stiles? Did you get everything sorted with Deaton?”

“Yeah. My kids are in.” It didn’t even sound real. He hadn’t unsealed the envelopes yet; they were still stuffed in his pocket, feeling like brick of solid gold. “They’re in, Lyds. Scholarships, admittance, everything. They’re in!”

“Stiles!” Lydia shrieked with joy, and there was a definite thud through the phone, followed by Jackson’s muffled cursing. “I told you! Didn’t I say everything would work out? This is fantastic!”

“Yeah, you did.” His eyes were watering, probably just from laughing, and he wiped the wetness away with a quick brush of his thumb. “You told me, and it did. My kids are _in_ , Lydia.”

“They’re in,” she echoed, and the words curled up warm behind Stiles’ ribs. “And I fully expect Isaac’s letter of acceptance sometime in the next few weeks. This is perfect.”

There wasn’t a shade of doubt in Lydia’s tone, and Stiles utterly adored her.

“I just needed to tell you,” he said. “But hey, I’ll let you get back to _nothing immensely thrilling_ , okay?”

Lydia hummed, considering. “Stiles, sweetie? You don’t work until tomorrow afternoon, right? Do you think Isaac could stay over tonight?”

“Gross,” Stiles said fondly, leaning one cheek into his free hand. He might not be getting any in the foreseeable future, but there was some satisfaction in playing wingman again so his best friend could get her freak on. “Yeah, sure thing. Team Stilinski is always game for a sleepover. You crazy kids have fun.”

“ _Thank Christ_ ,” Jackson groused, less audible now. “ _Babe, hang up, come on_.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie,” Lydia said, then made an exaggerated kissy sound against the receiver. “Give that to my baby and tell him I love him.”

“You got it.” Stiles proceeded to pucker a big, wet kiss of his own, really laying it on thick. “And make sure you tell Jackson that’s from me, okay?”

“ _You’re a dickhead, Stilinski!_ ”

 

* * *

 

To be honest, after sharing the big news and subsequent hugfest with his dad, and then more of the same with Melissa when he told her, Stiles sort of forgot about the fact that he had Talia Hale’s home and cell numbers in his contact list. Until about a week after the second meeting at Fáelán, when his phone started trilling in his pocket as he was heading into work.

The ringtone was just his default, so Stiles fully expected to see some name he didn’t recognise on his call display. He fished the phone out of his pocket as he sauntered across the parking lot, curious but unconcerned, then came dangerously close to dropping it as he lurched forward.

The screen read _: Talia Hale - Home_. He punched his thumb against the answer button too quickly to overthink things.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Stiles?” Talia’s voice sounded slightly higher pitched through the phone, but it was definitely her. “It’s Talia. Do you have a minute to chat?”

He had fifteen minutes until his shift was supposed to start, but that could wait.

“Sure, absolutely. Good to hear from you. What’s up?” Shit, he needed to breathe.

“I was hoping to formally extend that invitation to the house,” she said. “I know the holidays are coming up, and it’s such a busy time of year, but Derek’s birthday is next week, and I was wondering if your twins might want to come for his party. Isaac, as well— do you think you could give his parents my number?”

“Derek’s birthday?” Stiles had always had a soft spot for those poor bastards born so close to Christmas. Even if you didn’t celebrate the holiday, it had to be hard to get away from all the hype and drum up the kind of attention a birthday deserved. “When is it?”

“His actual birthday is the twenty-fifth, and yes, I know he’ll probably never forgive me. But it’s hardly my fault he decided to arrive two weeks early.” Regular old parenting talk with Talia Hale. Sure, why not. “We’re having the party on the twenty-third. It’s a Saturday, from two to four. And if your pups wanted to stay overnight, we could even do a sleepover after. We have the space, and as you said, they all really seemed to hit it off, didn’t they?”

“Malia’s been making drawings to give to Cora.” _So many_ drawings; most of them were of cats, though a couple of them were of Cora and Malia themselves. One of Stiles’ personal favourites had the girls riding a dinosaur. “And I’m pretty sure Scott made a friendship bracelet. He won’t show me, but we have those beads with the letters, you know? And he asked me twenty times how to spell _Derek_.”

“Oh my,” Talia said, laughing. “Mine aren’t terribly talkative when they get focused on things, but I have a feeling there have been some similar antics here. Do you think you might drop by for the party? I know it’s short notice, especially for this time of year.”

The twenty-third of December, Panic Saturday, and Stiles worked retail. Fuck it, he’d make it work. He’d trade shifts somehow, even if it cost him a hefty favour or ten.

“No, yeah, totally. We’ll be there. Thanks for the invite.” The kids were going to explode when he told them. It was going to be _so awesome_. “I’ll give Lydia your contact info, too, no problem. Oh, and… Yeah, if you’re really cool to keep them for a sleepover, they’d love that.”

Ordinarily, Stiles wouldn’t have dreamed of letting his kids stay over at someone’s house when he’d only met the parents once. But Stiles had read _Wolf At The Door_ more times than he could count, as well as the dozens of articles Talia had written about shifter rights over the years. He didn’t _know_ her, but he sort of trusted her? He trusted she was good people, at least. His mom hadn’t been Hale Pack, but he’d only ever heard his dad speaking well of the family, and John Stilinski wasn’t a man who let old money or influence sway his opinions of people. He also had that freaky cop-intuition thing, which was both incredibly useful and staggeringly annoying, depending on the day.

“Wonderful!” Stiles could hear Talia’s smile, and felt an answering expression stealing over his own face. “Derek’s going to be over the moon.”

His brain seized up, latching on to one word in that sentence. He did a quick mental calculation, but no, they were all good. The full moon wasn’t until after Christmas.

Talia Hale might be good people, but Stiles hadn’t spent a full moon away from his daughter in five years, and he wasn’t about to start now.

 

* * *

 

“You will remember your pleases and thank yous,” Stiles was saying, as they drove up the long, wooded road through the Preserve that led to the Hale house. It was bumpy, but definitely not as bad as it would have been if he hadn’t retired his jeep back when he’d realised it wasn’t going to work in his new reality of car seats and super high safety standards. The Kia was a smoother ride, even if he’d never love another the way he’d loved Roscoe. That jeep was his soulmate.

“You will not eat anything on a dare, _Scott_. You will not lick anything that is not approved as food, _Lia_. You will wish Derek a happy birthday, you will gorge on way too much cake, you will play games. You will have so much fun, and you will listen to Ms. Hale. Do we understand each other, my spawn?”

“Yes, Dad,” the kids chirped together, just as Stiles turned up into what might have been called the Hale’s driveway, if it wasn’t just the only real road in this part of the Preserve, leading up to their house. There were several cars already lined up, but the wide clearing that constituted the front yard still had plenty of space.

“Do you have the presents?”

There was a rustling from behind him, but Stiles was too busy parking cautiously behind a dark silver Benz to look. “Yes, Dad!”

“Did you remember to pack your toothbrushes?” He hadn’t spilled the beans about staying over at the Hales. When he pulled out their overnight bag, the kids assumed they’d be spending the night at Isaac’s, and Stiles hadn’t disabused them of that notion. He planned to stay for the party, and if he wasn’t one hundred percent comfortable with the sleepover idea by the end of it, making excuses with Talia wouldn’t be the end of the world.

“Yes, Dad!”

“Are you the incredible Princess Lia and Scott-bacca, radical in every way?”

“Yes, Dad,” Malia shouted, while Scott let loose a throaty, disgusted sigh. The little dude saw precisely no appeal in Star Wars; he’d never even stayed awake long enough for Luke to get off Tatooine. Sometimes Stiles wondered where he’d gone so profoundly wrong with his only son.

“Okay,” Stiles said, as he watched Lydia and Jackson pull up behind him in their SUV. “Stay in the car ‘til I come around, please. I don’t want you in the driveway without me.”

“Hola, Martin-Whittemores,” he called back, once their car doors swung open. Getting Scott and Malia out and sorted was pretty straightforward, as long as he kept his body between them and any space where cars might drive. It wasn’t long before three kids and three adults were trudging up the packed dirt driveway, making their way to the Hale’s front porch.

There were bunches of multicoloured balloons attached to all of the columns that supported the porch roof; they matched the balloons Stiles had seen tied to a few trees on the drive in from the main road. Ushering the kids up the steps, Stiles was happy to let someone else ring the bell as he busied himself straightening Scott’s hoodie, where it had gotten twisted up under his armpits.

“Well, hello there.” There wasn’t even a single muted chime, just a familiar voice. Stiles’ head jerked up, and he saw Jackson, poised with his finger above the doorbell, not touching it. In the open doorway, Peter was leaning against the frame, all crossed arms and small, bland smile.

“Uncle Peter!” the kids cheered, rushing forward like a tide; Peter didn’t even pretend to move an inch when three little bodies barrelled into his legs for hugs. He did reach down and give each of their heads a scratch, one at a time, but his gaze stayed on the adults.

“Go on in, pups,” he said, shaking off his entourage with deft aplomb. “They’re all in the living room. You can’t miss it.”

The kids needed no further encouragement to dart into the house, leaving their parents behind without a backwards glance. Peter extended an arm with a sort of bored theatricality, letting his fingers unfurl towards the open door.

“Welcome.”

 

* * *

 

There were more balloons inside, stuck to door frames and banisters, and a rainbow of streamers and pennant banners were draped everywhere. There wasn’t a single Christmas light, sprig of holly, or pine garland to be seen, just a riot of birthday decor, and Stiles felt weirdly pleased about that.

Maybe twenty-five kids were milling around what Stiles assumed was the living room, just to the left when he stepped into the Hale’s tasteful foyer. The large, panelled glass doors had been swung wide open, and there were a couple of couches that had obviously been pushed out of the way to make space for the horde of children, as well as a long table covered in snacks, and a smaller table piled with wrapped gifts.

“Stiles!” With only the barest milliseconds of warning, Stiles found himself swept up in a strong hug, shocking enough to make him flail before hugging back. Talia’s dark hair smelled faintly of something herbal, sweet but not quite flowery, and he knew she was scenting him. It was weird, but not unwelcome, so he let it happen. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for having us,” Stiles answered automatically, as Talia pulled away from the embrace, and turned her attention to the Martin-Whittemores. Jackson immediately had his head tilted to one side, eyes averted and neck subtly bared, while Lydia had her perfectly polite, beauty queen smile firmly in place.

“And this must be Isaac’s mom and dad,” Talia said, extending her arms for handshakes instead of hugs this time. “We spoke on the phone; I’m Talia. Jackson, I believe I know your parents, don’t I?”

There was a bunch of introductory chatter, some of it geared toward shifter happenings— Jackson’s parents had moved to Beacon Hills years ago, in time for Jackson to attend BHHS, but they were well-respected members of a Pack based out of Sacramento, not locals. It wasn’t surprising that Talia Hale had all the connections, though, and neither Jackson or Lydia had ever had trouble holding their own when it came to smalltalk. Stiles didn’t really intend to zone out of the conversation, but somehow Peter had vanished like smoke, which was bizarrely distracting, and the room full of chattering kids was drawing his attention too.

He spotted his own rugrats with practiced ease, including Isaac’s dark blond curls— the little dude was already at least an inch or two taller than pretty much all the other kids, despite presumably being younger than most of them. Unsurprisingly, Malia had honed right in on Cora, and was already shoving a red plastic pocket folder into the other girl’s hands. It was stuffed to overflowing with drawings, but Malia hadn’t been willing to trim down her portfolio any further.

On the other side of the room, Scott and Isaac were trading one-armed hugs with the birthday boy, while Scotty pulled a tangle of braided cords out of his pants’ pocket, separating one from the rest. It hadn’t been too challenging to convince him to make a bracelet for Cora too, and even one for the yet-unmet Laura: Stiles only had to suggest that the other Hale siblings might feel left out. Scott had a deep, abiding belief in fairness, and a pretty damned firm moral compass for a five year old. It wasn’t always easy— Scotty could be a stubborn little shit when he got something in his head as _right,_ but it was mostly impressive.

Stiles had long ago come to the conclusion that his son was just an innately nicer person than he was, which was totally okay. He had it on good authority that he was kind of a dick, after all.

The bracelets were coloured hemp, all wound together in braids— it was something Scotty had picked up when Melissa decided to try and teach them how to do Malia’s lengthening hair in anything fancier than a ponytail. If pressed, Stiles could manage a few simple braids now, but Scott had taken to it like a duck to water, and his coordination was really improving with the practice. It wasn’t unusual to find Malia done up in a whole head of crooked, idle plaits if the twins had been flopped together on the couch for any length of time.

And, of course, Stiles had been totally correct: the alphabet beads had been brought out in force too. After a moment or two of Scott’s fussing, Derek held up his newly decorated wrist, turning it back and forth. The boy was grinning almost shyly at the loop of green, blue, and black string, with tiny rainbow cubes spelling out his name. It was so damn cute, Stiles felt some sympathetic diabetes coming on.

“—get everyone settled,” Talia was saying, when her hand landing on his shoulder snapped Stiles’ attention back to the grownups. If anyone noticed his distraction, they didn’t mention it. “And then the pups can head out to the backyard for games. There’s food and drink in the kitchen, along with the rest of the parents, and there’s also a good view of the yard from there. Shall we?”

He took a second to drop Derek’s other present on the gift table— usually Stiles wasn’t a fan of giving gift cards, especially not to kids and especially not from his own job, but he’d really had no idea what Derek might want. He’d tried to make it a bit less boring by hunting down an awesome birthday card with a gleaming metallic rocket ship on the front. He also made sure to write a note inside telling Derek that he was welcome to drop by the bookstore anytime, and Stiles would help him pick out something great.

Slipping the envelope into a small pile of other cards, tucked partially under one of the sparkly gift bags, Stiles sent Malia a quick wave when she happened to look his way, then followed the adults across the foyer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are very appreciated, if you’re so inclined.
> 
> Next up, Peter’s POV. See you all in about a week, lovelies <3


	7. Birthday Parties & Alpha Plotting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that you folks are wonderful, and that I really appreciate your interest in this weird little AU? Because seriously, you're diamonds <3

The pups were amusing themselves in the yard, and so far, there had only been one tussle serious enough for Peter to get involved. Even better, he hadn’t needed to get his hands dirty: all it took was a well-placed look to send the offenders cringing away from each other.

It was tangible evidence that things were going according to plan, progressing just as he'd hoped. Half of the party guests were Derek’s classmates, while the rest were _family friends_ : mostly students from other schools whose parents were eager to get on Talia’s good side. Only one of the two squabbling pups had been one of Peter’s kids, but they’d both reacted beautifully, with deference in their eyes and apologies on their lips. All the aggression had bled away the moment the childish snarling stopped. They obeyed him, trusting his authority, and in almost no time at all they were back to being friendly again. It was instantaneous, effortless, and so very _right_.

That reaction had been something greater than the natural, expected submission of a pup being chastised by an adult Beta; this was bigger than that, Peter was completely sure. He could feel the long-dormant spark flaring in his core, even deeper than his bones and blood.

It might not be as flashy as the wriggling, whining submission Talia could trigger so easily, but he was more than content with the level of influence he had over his own young Pack. And now it seemed that influence was expanding, little by little. The path that stretched out ahead of him was long and painfully gradual, but he could feel himself growing subtly stronger every day.  Gradual also meant not easily noticed, which would help keep his purposes as obscured as they needed to be, at least until the threat of interference didn't matter anymore.  Until his plans couldn't be unraveled.

Unbroken bonds hummed gently between him and all his pups, even the ones who’d grown and moved on from kindergarten— fainter than typical Pack bonds, but still undeniably real. If he concentrated hard enough, he could sense them, spread over the backyard and farther: dozens of warm, golden threads spidering across Beacon Hills and beyond.

Those bonds shouldn't have been possible, let alone so durable.  The fact that they existed at all was a reminder of how badly one stupid mistake, seventeen years ago, had fucked up Peter’s entire life. A reminder of what he’d thrown away, and was now clawing back one shred at a time. A reminder of what he would have been.

Those regrets might have been nothing more than a bitter relic of lost power, if they were suffered by some miserable bastard with a fraction less ambition and determination. In the right hands, however, they could also be damn good motivation.

Peter was nothing if not determined.

Leaving his brother-in-law and a few older cousins to keep an eye on things for a while, Peter made his way back into the house before he could get dragged into another cutthroat game of _What Time Is It Mr. Wolf_. His current goals were simple: a cold drink, a plate of whatever more adult-oriented snacks the parents hadn’t massacred yet, and tracking down a certain curious young man.

The drink and the food would be in the kitchen, and as luck would have it, so was his other prey.

Grabbing two cans of soda, Peter began gathering more food onto a paper plate than he had any intention of eating, snarling at one of the more irritating parents who was trying to subtly monopolize the best of the cheese trays. Peter might only be a Beta, but he had no compunctions about reminding these wolves that they were guests on Hale land.

They were all toothless, anyway— meekly playing at being dogs instead of wild things, in some pathetic attempt at being accepted as safe. Harmless. Domesticated.

It would be laughable if it wasn’t so contemptible. And, worse than being simply degrading, it was wasted effort. There wasn’t a hope in hell that humans would ever see werewolves as harmless, because they were _werewolves_. Apex predators in near-flawless camouflage, hidden among droves of squishy, talking primates. Literal storybook monsters.

The type of garbage his sister peddled to these people, all while calling it _progress_ , was incredible.

It was gratifying to watch Dave Talbot avert his eyes in the face of Peter’s threat, skulking away like a beaten mutt from the aged gouda. That satisfaction wasn’t even slightly dimmed when Talia swept up into his personal space a few seconds later.

“Behave,” she said, mild but with a steel note of warning layered underneath, and Peter didn’t look up from his foraging.

“I’m always a delight.” He piled on sharp cheddar and thin wedges of well-marbled blue, an array of crackers, and a few other odds and ends. “Ask the pups.”

“You know they won’t actually let you keep a child if you eviscerate their parents. Social Services are picky like that.”

Finishing up by tucking a pair of brightly festive napkins under his plate, Peter finally turned to his sister, tipping his head to one side in mock confusion rather than any sort of submission.

“What? I’d never ruin Derek’s big day with a disembowelment. Seriously, don’t you know what that smells like?”

Of course all the wolves in the room were listening, while making very certain they looked completely engaged elsewhere. And as always, Peter was acutely aware of how much he could get away with in this circumstance; he knew precisely how far he could push, and which lines could be danced across without serious consequence. There was a world of difference between being a strong, willful Beta, and a mutinous wolf making a powerplay.

He had no intention of actually challenging Talia, or even seriously undermining her authority in public. At this point, he had nothing to gain from making his sister appear weak, and the idea wasn’t even attractive for amusement’s sake. A stable Hale Pack would only benefit his larger plans, in the short and long term. Keeping them all safe and strong was one of his primary goals, after all.

He might not always agree with his sister, but he still liked her. Most of the time, he respected her. And he loved her, with the same savage protectiveness that he felt for all of his family.

That was why when Talia reached out, scruffing him with a firm grip biting into his nape, he allowed it without a fight. Her nails stayed blunt, without a hint of claw.

“Peter.” She shook him, once, not quite hard enough to upend his plate. He didn’t drop his eyes from where they were locked with hers, but he kept his expression placid, which was the best compromise she was going to get if she insisted on chiding him like a pup in front of company. “ _Behave_.”

“Of course.” When she let him go, Peter leaned in, slowly enough that there was no way it could be interpreted as a threat, and kissed his sister’s cheek. “You should put out more of that bresaola before someone gets mauled. These people are animals.”

He turned on his heel before she could frown any harder at him, making his way towards the other end of the kitchen. Wolves parted around him like the sea, but Peter made a point of circling around the most congested groups, getting himself out of the way rather than expecting them to move. It was a small show of deference, and it would probably be enough to keep Talia from tossing him out to play with the pups again.

Sidling up to one of the party’s few humans, who was standing alone by the large back windows, Peter didn’t make any effort to announce his presence before he leaned in close and spoke.

“We talked about this staring thing.” Stiles’ startle reactions were delightfully exaggerated, all thrashing limbs and squawking. Peter stayed out of the way until the other man settled, since taking an elbow to the face wasn’t an appealing notion, even if it wouldn’t cause any permanent damage.

“Jesus _god_ —” Stiles gasped, clutching one hand in the fabric of his blue checked shirt, just over where Peter could hear his heart rabbiting. “Has no one ever threatened to put a bell on you?”

“No one’s ever done it twice.” Holding out the sodas, Peter forced himself to release some of the lingering tension from his talk with Talia, gradually relaxing his muscles. “Thirsty?”

Stiles didn’t immediately take one of the cans, and Peter’s initial opinion of him ticked a few degrees higher. Healthy suspicion was so much wiser than blind acceptance.

After a moment’s consideration, Stiles reached for the Coke, leaving Peter with a Sprite for himself. Curling his finger to pull the tab open one handed, Peter took a sip before pointing vaguely toward the window.

“Malia is fast,” he said, as the pups carried on with what appeared to be a rowdy game of Capture the Flag. “With clever instincts and good control, and Scott is definitely tenacious. They’re keeping up with, or even outdoing, most of these older pups. You didn’t consider Transitional Kindergarten?”

Stiles shook his head, letting his thumb trace idly over the top of his soda without opening it. “Nah. Isaac wouldn’t have made the age cut, and they’re all together at a really great preschool now, so. The little dude is basically their brother, and ohana means no one gets left behind.”

Heavy-handed Disney references aside, Peter had a few opinions about the potential for siblings, no matter how loving, to become more of a millstone than a benefit. But that was a conversation best saved for a different time, in different company.

“You found an integrated preschool?” he asked instead, because he recalled Stiles having some strong opinions on the matter inclusivity in education. If there was an integrated preschool within a thousand miles of Beacon Hills, Peter would have heard about it before now.

“Oh, yeah.” The coke opened with a sharp snap, but Stiles’ smile was sharper. “Because those are a dime a dozen, right? Man, I got him a spot at a shifter place— basically had to sign in blood that I wouldn’t sue if something happened, but they’ve been going there for like two years, and Scotty loves it. Worst thing he’s ever come home with is skinned knees, but that got him Captain America band-aids, so he was feeling no pain.”

Peter continued looking out toward the yard, while keeping the other man in his peripheral vision. He set his drink on the window ledge and offered the plate casually, with the napkins pinched between his fingers. He was oddly pleased that the hesitation was a split second less pronounced before Stiles nabbed a couple of crackers and cubes of gouda.

“Thanks.” They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Peter found himself paying more attention to cataloguing things about Stiles, rather than listening closely to the various conversations humming behind them.

The man was younger than Peter by a handful of years, but not quite as young as he seemed at first glance. Perhaps not a teenaged father, but Peter guessed he hadn’t been far from twenty when his pups had been born. Twitchy enough to make the more feral parts of Peter’s nature chafe to hold him down, to pin him like prey, but it was restlessness, not nerves, that kept Stiles in almost constant motion. There wasn’t a single sour whiff of panic in his scent, or even the low simmer of anxiety that was normal for a human thrust into the middle of a pack of unknown wolves.

All the other humans there were partners or children of the wolves in attendance, and even so, none of them smelled as calm as the man currently standing beside Peter, rhythmically twisting his soda tab back and forth.

Stiles had arrived with a wolf— some lean, handsome Beta with a slick attitude, and expensive cologne layered over the underlying stink of uncertainty that was common in young wolves living away from their family Pack— and the same young woman from his first visit to Fáelán. Ms. Martin was certainly intriguing in her own way: stunningly beautiful, keenly intelligent, with an allure that reminded Peter of wolfsbane in full bloom. Sweet, soft, and painfully lethal to the careless. There was a hint of nervousness in the way she orbited her husband, never straying too far from his elbow as they mingled expertly around the party, but Peter wasn’t prepared to guess whether the worry was for herself, or for her wolf.

Regardless, while Stiles may have arrived with a wolf, it was clear the man didn’t consider Jackson Whittemore his protection here. The three of them smelled enough like each other to suggest some semblance of a Pack, but it was Whittemore who shifted himself a fraction of a step behind Stiles when they stood beside each other. Peter wondered if it was conscious— if either human or wolf acknowledged that it was happening. Probably not.

Like his son, Stiles’ scent also carried a pharmaceutical tang that prickled the back of Peter’s sinuses, but it wasn’t entirely the same. Medicine of some kind, but not an inhaler; it clung faintly to Stiles’ skin, which probably meant a regular schedule of pills or injections. Often enough for the chemicals to saturate his blood and sweat almost naturally, without spiking like a sudden dose would.

“So,” Stiles said suddenly, dragging Peter’s attention away from carefully considering the bright notes of citrus in the man’s deodorant, and the scattering of moles that dotted over his jaw. “Did I actually hear you growl a minute ago? Like, full on Cujo, _rawr_?”

There were curled fingers, miming claws, and blunt, bared teeth accompanying that mock growl; Peter raised both eyebrows at the display.

“Really.” Just for that, Peter snapped up the last of the crackers for himself, emptying the plate and tossing it onto the window ledge. A weighty, uneasy silence was building in the rest of the kitchen, sweeping outward on the heels of furtive whispers.

They all probably thought he was going to have Stiles pressed against the wall in the next few seconds, with claws pricking that long, pale throat. No doubt a few of them were expecting him to tear the man apart right there— rip him wide open, throat to guts, consequences be damned. Peter was surprised Talia hadn’t intervened already, considering how partial she already seemed to be to this strange human.

“This is your one and only warning about dog jokes,” Peter said, raising a single finger, and letting his claw grow to full, wicked length just to see if Stiles might flinch. When he didn't so much as bat an eyelash, Peter was thoroughly charmed. “Or I’ll throw you to the pups with your hands tied behind your back, and tell them you’re ticklish.”

It was a ridiculous threat, and there was something delicious in the fact that falling back on that sort of teasing had actually made the tension in the rest of the room worse. Predictability was so boring.

“Ouch! So harsh, man.” Stiles snorted out an inelegant laugh, seemingly oblivious to the nearby crowd still holding their collective breaths. Peter, on the other hand, was getting tired of the scrutiny.

“I’m going to get some air,” he said, then swung his head to the right, finally acknowledging their audience with a hard look. He didn’t even have to flash his eyes, and he still had one or two of the more skittish wolves shrinking back. The rest quite suddenly found other things to hold their interests, except the Martin-Whittemores, who were both looking over at Stiles with varied levels of concern, and Talia, who was favouring Peter with a very red, very cautionary stare. Peter winked at her.

“Coming?” he asked, turning back to Stiles, but didn’t wait for an answer before slipping out of the kitchen. The man would either follow, or he’d linger too long and get absorbed back into the crowd. The stories he’d hear about Peter would be relatively tame, since Talia was present, but there would be endless insinuations.

Footsteps stumbled after him almost immediately, and Peter didn’t hide his grin. Stiles caught up in a few strides, and it only took a moment before they were both stepping out onto the back deck, and the dappled December sun. Kids were squealing and shrieking with unfettered joy in the yard, which was a sound Peter actually enjoyed; it was certainly better than the prattling they’d just left behind.

Bypassing the porch swing and the covered barbeque, Peter moved down to a clear section of railing, leaning in and planting his elbows on the smooth, grey cedar. Stiles settled in beside him without waiting for an invitation, still cradling his soda can with long fingers.

“Any particular reason the other parents are all giving you serious side-eye,” Stiles said. “Because I gotta say, not exactly the best impression I could be getting about the dude I’m going to entrust with my kids.”

“They entrust me with _their_ kids.” Peter took a deep breath, letting his senses adjust to the familiar plethora of scents: the Preserve around them, all dead leaves and damp earth, and the rabble of pups. “They might not like me, but no one’s ever found fault with my teaching.”

“Deaton said you were very good with kids.” That was one good thing Peter would say about Alan: he wasn’t one for petty gossiping. He could also be sincere, when it suited him. “And I checked you out online, too. You know you’ve got like, four and a half stars on RateMyTeachers?”

“I’m genuinely excellent, it’s true.”

“But, what?” Stiles motioned back towards the house with a flap of his hand. “Do you, like, go all Mr. Hyde when you step outside a classroom? Not up to date with your distemper shots? Because it’s obvious you’re kind of a tool, which would be fine, but a couple of those guys seemed honestly freaked out.”

“It’s obvious I’m _kind of a tool_?” Peter glanced over, and found Stiles staring straight back at him, unapologetic and expectant. “You certainly don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

“Not when it comes to my kids, I don’t.”

“That’s admirable.” And it honestly was. Peter straightened up a bit, bracing his palms on the railing and stretching his back. It wasn’t an especially warm day, maybe fifty-five in the sun, but he was perfectly comfortable in just a thin shirt, with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Stiles, on the other hand, was already rubbing at his arms, looking distinctly unimpressed that he’d left his jacket inside.

“The thing about werewolf Packs,” Peter began, because it wasn’t as though any of this was some big secret. Not anymore, at any rate. “Is that we’re not quite as tame and civilized as some of us would like you to think we are.”

“ _You_ , in this case, meaning _me_. Meaning humans.”

“Exactly.” The pups wouldn’t have enough control of their hearing yet to truly focus on this conversation in the midst of all the other chaos, but Brendan and the cousins would, if they cared to listen. There wasn’t anywhere private enough in the entire house to escape Talia’s ears, anyway. “Werewolves are physical creatures. We don’t get hurt easily or stay hurt for very long, and we’re naturally aggressive. Even minor disagreements tend to turn bloody much quicker than with humans, but violence isn’t considered as serious between wolves. Alphas are supposed to keep their wolves in line, stepping in before things get out of hand, but in larger Packs there are usually a few particular Betas who help keep the peace. Relatively speaking.”

“And you do that for your sister? Keep the peace?” The tab had snapped completely off Stiles’ soda, and he was twisting it around the tip of one finger. “Or are you one of the ones being kept in line?”

“That depends on the day.” Peter flashed a hint of fang, enjoying both the back-and-forth, and Stiles’ casual audacity. “I enforce order on Talia’s behalf, when it’s needed. But I also refuse to make any apologies for my nature— I’m a werewolf. I’ve never tried to ‘pass’ as anything else. It’s not a popular attitude, and it’s one of several things my sister and I disagree on.”

“What?” Standing up, Stiles leaned his hip against the railing, turning to face Peter with his arms folded and his head cocked. “I thought Talia would be down with the whole, out-and-proud shifter thing. That’s her deal, with the articles, and the book, all the advocacy stuff.”

“Oh yes, Talia’s great integration strategy.” Peter could feel his hackles rising at the very thought of it. “It’s idiotic.”

“You don’t want shifter integration? Really?” It was a toss up, whether Stiles hardening expression was more surprise or indignation.

“Now, I didn’t say that.” Just as he’d done with Talia not long before, Peter kept his own demeanor outwardly placid, but didn’t retreat a single inch. “I want integration, but I know that the way my dear sister is going about things is foolish at best, absolutely disastrous at worst. And I’d rather not be left with the fallout when things go to hell, thanks very much.”

“How? What do you think she’s doing that’s so wrong?” Almost immediately, Stiles was poised for a fight, with his shoulders straightening and a fiery glint in his eyes. It was an unexpectedly controlled fierceness, as twitchy, frenetic energy melted away, leaving a measured, dangerous stillness in its wake.

And somehow, this pale, scrawny human squaring off in front of a werewolf in his prime wasn’t the impotent display it should have been. In the anemic glare of the afternoon sun, Peter was almost surprised when those intense amber eyes didn’t shift ever so slightly brighter, to true Beta gold.

It was getting clearer why Talia had decided to take this young man under her wing so quickly, and it wasn't simply the pretty face. She’d always had good instincts for potential, and Stiles certainly seemed as though he’d be a powerful addition to any Pack, whether or not he stayed human.

Well, it would hardly be the first time Peter snatched one of his sister’s toys from under her nose.

“You really want to get into this? Now?” He pointed over the railing, feigning annoyance. “It’s a birthday party.”

“Hey man, you’re the one who brought it up.”

“Fine,” Peter huffed, as if this interaction wasn’t already becoming the highlight of his week. “You want to know why Talia’s big plans are doomed to failure? It’s because she’s ignoring reality in favour of building far too many of her arguments on faulty comparisons and false equivalence. _Shifter Rights_ , or whatever the buzzwords are now, can’t be compared to any sort of human social justice movements, past or present.”

“Shifters can’t serve in the military, or adopt human kids,” Stiles said, buzzing with an undercurrent of defensiveness, but also leaning unconsciously closer, eager to discuss. His obvious passion about the topic made Peter want to lick his throat, and feel that steady, hummingbird-quick pulse against the flat of his tongue. “There’s still educational segregation up until high school, and it’s only been in the last, what, five years that shifters could get jobs as cops or EMTs? You wouldn’t even be allowed to teach in most schools, and there’s always some crackpot every election arguing that you shouldn’t have the right to vote. How is this not a social justice issue?”

“It is,” Peter admitted. “It’s a civil and social rights issue, but it’s a _werewolf_ issue first, and that makes it acutely different, no matter how Talia and her ilk try to spin it. This isn’t like feminism, or the LGBT movement, or even anything to do with race— werewolves are a fundamentally different _species_. Don’t you see what an enormous difference that makes?”

“You’re still _people_ —” Stiles began to say, and Peter didn’t feel a shred of guilt cutting off that kumbaya, _we’re all the same inside_ bullshit.

“Yes, but we’re not _human_.” Holding up one hand between them, Peter spread his fingers and let every claw extend with a sharp _snick_. “Every other time in your history, when a majority power has dehumanized a minority, it’s been nothing but rhetoric. Hateful and dangerous, but biologically untrue. But werewolves are literally inhuman: physiologically different, significantly more powerful, faster, with an entirely different set of instincts. And that’s not something most _shifter rights advocates_ want to think about. Muddies the waters.”

“Alright,” Stiles said, chewing his bottom lip in a way that had threatened to destroy Peter’s train of thought more than once in the last few minutes. “Let’s say I buy that. You said you’re all for integration, just not presented this way, right? You honestly think what you’re talking about is enough of a problem to derail all the progress so far?”

“Absolutely.” It was a good question, with a promising amount of moral ambiguity: was the entire, unvarnished truth even necessary if the results of prettier lies were positive? Peter appreciated the sentiment, even if the answer wasn’t what Stiles wanted to hear. “What my sister calls compromise is far too much like assimilation, and it's wasted effort. There’s no benefit to pretending we’re human. It only worked as well as it did before the Anagnorisis because you didn’t know we existed. No matter how human we look or act now, we’re never going to be seen as ordinary, harmless citizens again, and we _shouldn’t be_. Integration, the way Talia tries to sell it, ignores dangers that need to be accepted. Not forgotten or overlooked— not _repressed_ , but accepted as fact and built on from there.”

“Hey, humans are dangerous too.” When Peter rolled his eyes, Stiles actually reached out and prodded him in the bicep with the tip of one finger. The easy physicality wasn’t anything close to violent, but it was insistent, and Peter marvelled at the gall. “Nah, no way, don’t even give me that. That’s not a debate, Peter, and you know it.”

Stiles looked more than prepared to say more, but then a worrying noise in the yard grabbed Peter’s attention. While a quickening heartbeat might have been lost in the crowd of excited pups, the sharp, short breaths were abnormal enough to stand out. Not desperately wheezy enough to warrant panic yet, but definitely not good.

He ignored whatever Stiles was saying, letting his ears guide him as he peered out over the railing, hunting the distressed sound. The dullness bled from his eyes, replaced by the cold, electric blue that had marked him since he was fifteen. Almost immediately, he honed in on a small, hunched form, close to the treeline.

“Stiles,” he said, keeping his tone perfectly level. “I think Scott is having an asthma attack. Does he have his inhaler, or do you?”

To his credit, Stiles didn’t hesitate, even as his own heartbeat started to race. “He does. Pants’ pocket. Peter—”

Peter was vaulting over the railing before Stiles had finished, and even as he darted across the yard, he kept half an ear on the progress of Stiles’ sneakers scrambling over the deck and towards the stairs. The vast majority of his attention was focused on the little boy with one hand braced on his knee and one fumbling for his pocket, fighting to catch a breath.

“S’good, s’okay,” Scott was whispering between gasps, apparently trying to reassure the pair of pups clustered beside him. Both Derek and Laura were wide-eyed and pale, looking positively stricken where they hovered at Scott’s side.

“Give him some room,” Peter ordered, kneeling in front of the boy. “It’s not serious. Scott, straighten up. Long, deep breaths.”

Behind him, Peter could hear his brother-in-law trying to keep order as the rest of the pups realized something was wrong. Hopefully, Brendan would be able to stop them from swarming closer in the first place, before Peter was forced to shoo them himself.

When Scott lifted himself up from being bent over nearly double, his face was blotchy red, but there wasn’t a hint of any dangerous bluing around his gaping mouth. The boy held his inhaler in one shaky hand, and took his first suck of vapour just as his father and sister both skidded to a stop beside them.

“He’s fine,” Peter said, before Stiles could catch a breath of his own. Scott’s lungs were already slowing as the medicine relaxed his airways. “It wasn’t bad, was it Scott?”

Scott shook his head no, and Stiles sagged minutely for a split second. Then he swept in close and slung an arm around his son’s shoulders. Malia held back, twisting her fingers together.

“Yeah, you’re good, buddy.” With his free hand, Stiles rubbed gently over Scott’s chest. “Let’s go in for a minute and get you a drink, okay? Lia, baby, you alright?”

Leaving Stiles to handle his kids, Peter got back to his feet and turned to the throng of nervous children, milling together a short distance away. Most of them, the wolves especially, had probably never seen anything like this before. After this sort of upset, some Pack bonding would be useful. Something physical, to keeping them moving and clear their heads, but also encourage unity.

“Scott is fine, pups. I promise.” He’d knelt in mud, apparently; his jeans stuck wetly to his knee as he walked. “Now, you’ve got three seconds to scatter— we’re playing Freeze Tag, and I’m It.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing a bit ahead of what I post, as a buffer so I can try to keep the updating on a good schedule. That said, I can tell you that we'll have more Peter POV in Chapter 10 (both Peter&TheHales, and Peter/Stiles). 
> 
> Also just a bunch more Peter/Stiles interaction all over the place, now that we're all setup.


	8. Distemper Shots, Really?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a brief mention of Stiles/OC in this chapter, because a bit is revealed about the twins’ mum. I considered a bevy of canon female characters that I might choose instead, but in the end, decided to go with an OC.

Scotty was getting big, but Stiles hadn’t planned on letting that stop him from lugging his son inside the Hale house like a sack of potatoes. Until Scott insisted, politely, that he didn’t want to be carried.

Well. Alright then.

“I’m okay,” Scott was saying, while a parade of concerned kids trailed beside him. His cheeks were still flushed, but Stiles had a feeling that was more from embarrassment now, rather than any lingering symptoms. Malia had a tight hold on her brother’s hand, swinging their arms and chewing on her own lip with some distinctly sharp teeth. All three Hale kids, plus Isaac, were staying close as the Stilinskis made their way back to the house; at least one of the little shifters was whining under their breath, reedy and lupine.

“Guys, seriously. He just lost his breath for a minute.” Stiles remembered being the weird, anxious kid in elementary school, having to duck into the bathroom or behind the dumpster because the whole world was going dark at the edges, his lungs refused to work, and his heart was blowing up in his chest. Panic attacks had always made him want to crawl into somewhere dark and quiet, and hide forever. Being the centre of attention for this kind of crap was no fun. “Go on and play. Looks like Peter’s got his game face on, and you don’t want to get tagged, right?”

“I can go get a water bottle, Mr. Stilinski.” Stiles hadn’t been formally introduced to the oldest Hale kid, but Talia had pointed Laura out to him when they were chatting in the kitchen. The girl was ten years old, with chestnut brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she had a serious slant to her mouth that suggested she was used to being called on in situations like this. “I can be really fast.”

“Thanks, Laura,” he started to reply, then went with his instincts and lightly laid a hand on her shoulder before she could take off like a shot. The girl looked up at him with big, hazel green eyes, stymied, and Stiles gave her a reassuring smile. “But it’ll all good. Scotty’s going to have a drink, and give the medication a minute or two to do its job, then he’ll be back out and kicking butt again. Nothing to make a big deal over.”

Laura didn’t look convinced, at least not until Scott let go of Malia and turned around, walking backwards with that absolutely deadly, puppyish grin splitting his face.

“If you get tagged,” he said. “I promise to unfreeze you when I come back. We’re not gonna lose.”

There was a bone-rattling roar from the other side of the yard, followed by the shrieks and laughs of children. Stiles glanced over, and saw Peter looming in the middle of a ring of frozen kids, with his hair windswept, the v-neck of his shirt pulled askew and obscenely deep, and a hint of fang poking out from between his lips, visible even at this distance.

“Whuh.” It wasn’t even a word, just an exhaled noise, partway between a whimper and a moan. Stiles swallowed hard, remembered where the fuck he was, and forcefully dragged his attention back to the matter at hand. “I mean, wow, yeah, Scotty’s right. You’re down, like, ten kids already. But hey, you can still pull this one out. Listen.”

They were at the deck stairs now, and Scott’s breathing sounded back to normal, so Stiles took a minute to stop and address the little huddle of worried kids. They were all twitchy and out of sorts because they liked his son; that was enough to put them in Stiles’ good books, even if Scott would probably rather they just relaxed.

“Peter’s got skills,” Stiles said, channelling his inner feel-good sports movie coach. Way more appropriate for the current audience than the actual coach he’d had for lacrosse in high school. “I mean, dude’s probably been chasing down fluffy bunnies in these woods since before any of you were born, right? But there’s only one of him, and you guys are young and fast. So, strength in numbers, distraction, divide and conquer, that kind of thing. Split up, make him work for it, tire him out. You think you can do it?”

“Yeah!” Isaac and Cora shouted in unison, while Laura only hesitated a second before adding her own fiercely determined: “Let’s do it!” Derek stayed quiet, but the jut of his jaw was proof enough that the little dude was in it to win it.

Scott was the first one to tug up the sleeve of his hoodie, exposing his own well-worn, red and yellow braided bracelet, and stretched his arm into the impromptu circle they’d formed at the foot of the stairs. Malia caught on quickest, slapping her hand over her brother’s. Isaac was next, then the Hales followed suit, all stacking their hands in the most beautifully clichéd way. It was so amazingly cheesy, Stiles was biting the insides of his lips to keep from laughing in their tiny earnest faces.

“Right on! Go get ‘em, team,” he managed to say, and then all the shifters except Malia were off and running. It was obvious to Stiles that Peter, now stalking around the edge of the yard, let them pass unbothered on purpose. And of course, he’d probably heard the entirety of Stiles’ pep talk, too, and was up to speed on the jist of the kids’ loosely organized strategy.

He caught Stiles' eye, and made a show of running his tongue over the jagged edge of his fangs, then prowled after the fleeing kids with another deep roar.

The poor little saps were so doomed.

 

* * *

 

Stiles had taken maybe four steps back into the house before Jackson was beside him, with that scrunched up, constipated look on his face that meant he was trying to play down how concerned he was actually feeling.

“Hey, smells like albuterol." Even without Isaac following behind them, Jackson didn’t relax the barest fraction. Later, Stiles would remember this moment. Not for the first time, he’d marvel at the fact that by some quirk of fate, Jackson Whittemore actually gave a shit about Stiles’ kids. Like, a lot. “Everything cool?”

“Yeah, no big. Scotty lost his breath for a minute.” Honestly, Stiles was more concerned about his daughter at the moment. Malia was being uncharacteristically silent, and now that Scott wasn’t holding her hand, she’d gone back to wringing her fingers together.

“Wanna do me a favour,” Stiles asked, and wasn’t surprised by either the unimpressed narrowing of Jackson’s eyes, or the lack of immediate refusal. “Take Scott for a second, grab him a drink?”

Canting his head down, Stiles subtly motioned toward Malia; thankfully, Jackson caught on quickly.

“Yeah, sure. C’mere, bud.” Apparently, being carried by Jackson wasn’t a problem, since Scott wasted no time raising his arms and letting himself be hoisted up. Probably had something to do with the lack of an audience now, or at least Stiles hoped it did.

Nobody liked Jackson more than they liked him. Not even Lydia, really.

“Lia,” Stiles said, catching her by the hood of her sweater when she tried to follow her brother. “Hold up a sec, princess.”

The Hales had a mudroom that led out onto the deck, and Stiles coaxed his daughter over to sit beside him on one of the big wooden benches tucked against the walls. Her feet didn’t reach the floor when she hopped up, and her lemon yellow sneakers kicked rhythmically in midair as she fidgeted.

“Okay.” Without crowding her, Stiles reached out and stroked his hand over her hair, gently combing out a loose tangle or two with his fingers. “What’s up, buttercup? Wanna talk about it?”

Malia shook her head, scooting her butt a few inches to the right and curving in tight against his ribs. With Scott, this might be the time that Stiles started thinking of a song he could hum without butchering until the little dude was ready to talk, but Malia would usually rather focus on her dad’s heartbeat. He was still cradling her head with one hand, but he reached out with the other one and laid it over the squirmy knot of her fingers.

“You know Scotty’s okay,” he said after a minute, speaking very softly. “Right, baby?”

Scott’s breathing had never been a hundred percent, ever since he and his sister decided that eight weeks early was a great time to be born. The inhaler made regular appearances in their house; sometimes Scott used it a couple of times a day, but not every day. Their pediatrician was still cautiously hopeful that he might grow out of the worst of the asthma.

The point was, a minor hiccup like this certainly shouldn’t have been enough to get Malia so upset. Stiles bent down, pressing a kiss against the crown of her head, and lingered there. Her hair smelled like candy scented kids’ shampoo and fresh air, and under all that, the warm, sweet scent that meant _daughter_.

She mumbled into the cotton of his shirt, and if their heads hadn’t been pressed together, it would’ve been too garbled for him to understand.

“Should’a listened.” There was a wet sniff, followed by a nuzzle, because being a dad sometimes meant playing substitute for tissues in emergency runny nose situations. “Didn’t… I was too far away, and I didn’t hear him. I’m s’posed to look after Scotty.”

“Oh, baby.” She sounded so utterly brokenhearted, so _ashamed_ , it was like someone punched a hole straight through his chest. “You and Scott look out for each other, yeah, and that’s so great. You’re such a great sister, Malia, really and truly, and I’m so, _so_ proud that you two love each other so much. But it’s not your fault when Scott’s asthma acts up, and it’s not your job to look after him, okay? Just like it’s not his job to make sure you don’t tear up your pillow when you have a bad dream. And it’s not his fault or yours when stuff like that happens by accident.”

She was pretty limp when he carefully manhandled her around to look at him— not actively helping, but not fighting with him either. Cupping her jaw, Stiles thumbed against her pouty bottom lip, and felt his heart crack a bit wider when he noticed her eyes were watery.

Usually, when they were out playing, Malia was good at catching her brother before he worked himself into a serious attack. She’d tug him aside, and depending on how sharply Scott’s breath was already catching, she’d either stay close while he got his inhaler, or if it wasn’t bad enough to need the medication, she’d hold his hands while they breathed together, slow and deep.

Stiles had thought it was just Malia being thoughtful, but apparently, his little girl had taken it on as a sacred duty when he wasn’t paying attention.

“Baby, you and your brother were both having fun outside, right?” After a pause, Malia nodded once. “Okay, good. Now, Scotty’s not at mad at you— he does that weird thing with his eyebrows when he gets mad, right? Do you think he’d want you to be mad at yourself?” A longer pause this time, but then Malia found her voice again.

“No,” she said, shaky but sure. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, princess.” Opening his arms wider, Stiles was rewarded with a lapful of little girl. Malia’s grip was iron around the back of his neck, and her nose pressed against the side of his throat, scenting. “It’s your job to be awesome and have fun, okay? It’s _my_ job to look after both of you.”

 

* * *

 

Cheered up or not, Malia wasn’t about to head back outside without her brother. So, after a few more minutes of snuggles, she hopped down and headed off to find him. Stiles was left to trail behind, digging some tissues out of his pocket to blot at the damp patch on his shirt. If he’d been quicker on the draw, he might have remembered he had them _before_ Malia had wiped her sad little boogers all over his chest, but he’d been covered in worse.

He meandered back out into the main house, and before he could duck into the kitchen, a familiar squeal of laughter had him changing course towards the partially closed living room doors.

Both of his kids were inside: Scott was perched on Lydia’s knee, drinking from a green plastic glass, while Malia was clinging to Jackson’s back like a monkey, being toted around the room and swatting at the balloons hanging just out of reach from the ceiling. Unlike her brother, Malia wasn’t usually the sort to wallow in a lousy mood, which was good and bad. It meant she bounced back easily, but her own moods could be mercurial, and they tended to burn hot. Still, she’d never been as volatile as Stiles had been warned to expect; even on full moons, for a shifter kid she was positively serene.

A few shifters had approached him over the years, usually totally unprompted, to urge him to reach out to a local Pack. _For his own good_ , they almost always insisted, and a lot of them had been weirdly pushy about the whole thing. They all talked about the difficulties, the dangers, the impossibility of raising a shifter on his own, as if the conclusion was set in stone. As if Stiles would cave, as soon as enough pressure was applied to make him see reason. After one particularly memorable refusal, someone actually had the balls to say to his face: _we’ll see how goddamn stubborn you are after she eats her brother_.

The twins had only been about eighteen months old at the time, which was lucky. It would’ve been really hard to sell the whole _violence isn’t the answer_ schick if they actually remembered that time their dad sucker punched some dickhead shifter in the middle of the cereal aisle of the supermarket.

He fractured two knuckles that day, and nearly got his throat ripped out for his trouble. If he had to do it again, Stiles probably would’ve sacked the asshole instead. Shifters might have skulls like granite, but a shot to the nuts was one of life’s great equalizers.

“Everything alright?”

“ _God_ ,” Stiles gasped, turning to where Talia had appeared at his shoulder. “Is that a Hale thing? Sneaking up on the human? Because I know it’s not a shifter thing, or Jackson would’ve been scaring the literal crap out of me for years.”

“Sorry,” Talia said, with an impish smile that looked anything but, though she sobered almost immediately. “I heard Scott had a bit of trouble in the yard. Is there something I can get you? Anything you need?”

“We’re fine.” Shifters could be the fussiest mother hens when it came to the relative squishiness of humans. Peter had been refreshingly cool about the whole thing, but then again, the dude taught mixed kindergarten. He dealt with human kids on the daily. “Thanks. Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal. Right, Scotty boy? You’re good, yeah?”

Scott gave the two adults loitering in the doorway a thumbs up, slurping through his straw. Lydia leaned around, leaving a dot of coral pink lipstick behind when she pecked his cheek.

“Wait for me before you head back outside, okay peanuts?” Stiles jerked his thumb towards the foyer. “I need to talk to Ms. Hale for a minute. A grown-up talk, Lia.”

“‘Kay,” Malia said brightly, balancing herself by absolutely destroying the gelled perfection of Jackson’s hair. ‘Grown-up talk’ was code for ‘please try not to eavesdrop,’ though it didn’t always work out. At five years old, there was a limit to how much control she had over her senses. Plus, she was shamelessly nosy, and Stiles didn’t really have a leg to stand on with that. He definitely would’ve interpreted ‘grown-up talk’ as a challenge when he was a kid, whether he was fifteen or five.

Talia followed him out, and Stiles rubbed at the back of his neck, considering how to best phrase the thing he really needed to ask. It didn’t help that he was dreading the answer; the very last thing he wanted was Malia or Scott blaming themselves for a cancelled sleepover.

“So,” he started, then sighed. “I know there’s a big difference between being told a thing, and actually seeing it. If you’re even a little worried about the twins staying over, after this, I completely get it, really—”

“Stiles.” Talia was a very tactile person, even for a shifter. Maybe it was an Alpha thing. Reaching out, she laid one hand on his shoulder, and another cupped the side of his neck, curling warm over his pulse. “I’ve been around humans my entire life. Peter and I have an older sister who’s human, and Bethany is one of the strongest, most capable people I know. I’m not worried about Scott’s asthma.”

He hadn’t realised how tense he was until he relaxed, sagging ever so slightly. Talia didn’t let him go, giving his neck a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “I’d be happy to have your twins stay over, if they’d like.”

“Okay.” Stiles had already explored downstairs, and noted the outlet covers, and the big safety grill in front of the living room fireplace. There weren’t any glaring neon warning signs of a house unprepared for human kids, and Stiles didn’t get any bad feelings. “Wow, okay. Thanks, Talia.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles had been totally right, as usual: the twins freaked out with joy the minute he broached the topic of maybe staying for a sleepover with the Hales, although it was obvious that Malia had heard some of the details already, and spilled the beans to her brother. Stiles didn’t call either of them out on their blatantly false surprise reactions, since he’d rather they stayed bad actors for a while yet.

There was some minor confusion when he had to explain that, no, Isaac wouldn’t be staying over too— Talia had extended the invitation, but Lydia and Jackson had politely declined. Thank god Isaac didn’t seem broken up about it; his parents were apparently taking him to the movies, and having a family bonding night.

When Lydia had talked to Stiles about it before the party, she’d seemed surprised that he was even considering letting the twins stay over, given how new his interactions with the Hales were. It had been a weird conversation, especially since Stiles didn’t have any explanation for his trust in Talia except that he had a good feeling. Lydia wasn’t big on the whole _going on your gut_ thing.

Going with his gut was the reason Stiles had kids to begin with. He was a planner, sure, but sometimes that meant falling back on obsessive planning _after_ the impulsive decisions. If he actually took the time to think things through all the time, he would never have asked for the biggest favour imaginable when Lucy told him she was pregnant and wasn’t sure what she wanted to do. They were a couple of college kids at the time— friends who’d been hooking up on a semi-regular basis for maybe a year. They liked each other fine and the sex was pretty great, but it definitely hadn’t been some whirlwind romance, and Lucy realised pretty quickly that she had no interest in actually being a mom, at least not in the long term.

After a lot of conversations, and Stiles making absolutely clear that he supported whatever she decided, they’d come to a sort of… unplanned surrogacy agreement. Lucy would have the baby (or, babies, as it turned out), Stiles would handle all the medical bills, and in the end, Stiles would be the only one left with the kids and the custody. Lucy had insisted on waiving all her rights, though she still Skyped every so often, and the twins knew they came from Aunt Lucy’s belly. Lucy’s abuela even sent them birthday cards every year from Florida, usually with ten bucks tucked inside each one, if she didn’t send little gifts instead.

Stiles had gone with his gut, despite all good sense telling him that being twenty years old and halfway through his undergrad was not the prime time to become a single dad, and the twins had turned out to be literally the best part of his life. Having a good feeling about Talia Hale didn’t seem like an enormous leap, after that.

It was just after five o’clock when he made his exit from the Hale house, leaving his kids sprawled in a sticky, giggly, cake-fuelled puppy pile in the Hale’s expansive wreckroom. Apparently, dinner was going to be Derek’s favourite sloppy joes, _à la_ Talia’s burly, mountain man husband Brendan. The twins weren’t picky eaters by any stretch of the imagination, and they’d probably enjoy torturing their grandpa later with tales of glorious, saucy beef and buttery, toasted buns.

Stiles had begged off the meal, though not without regrets— it smelled _amazing_ — but he wanted to leave the kids to get settled without their dad hanging around, cramping the whole sleepover vibe. This would be their first night away at a house that wasn’t the Martin-Whittemores, and Stiles was tentatively confident that he wasn’t going to get a tearful, homesick phone call in the middle of the night.

He said his goodbyes to Talia and Brendan, slipping out onto the front porch and into the cool dusk just after sunset. Not far beyond the halo of porchlight, the Preserve was starting to sink into deepening shadows. To Stiles’ eyes, any distance into the trees was already lost to murky darkness. He wondered if schoolkids still dared each other to sneak up on this house when the moon was full.

The driveway in front of him was mostly clear of cars; he was the only parent left. But he wasn’t the only person hanging around in the woods at night, apparently. Stiles squinted at the figure leaning against the hood of his Kia, swallowing back a frisson of wariness, until he recognized the deep slope of those broad shoulders.

“Peter,” he said, drawing it out like a question. He’d already thanked the guy for his ninja leap off the deck to check on Scott, but they hadn’t had a chance to continue their discussion from earlier. “That’s my car, man.”

“I know.” Craning his thumb, Peter pointed to the very expensive Benz parked about a foot and a half in front of Stiles’ plucky little Kia Soul. “And that’s my car. The one you’ve got blocked in.”

Staring at the man for a long moment, Stiles made a show of swinging his arms around, indicating the very wide, empty stretch of packed ground that made up the rest of the Hales’ driveway. More than enough space to manoeuvre a freaking Greyhound bus around Stiles’ car, so a full-sized sedan should have been no problem.

“Seriously, dude?” The only answer Peter offered was a bland look, and Stiles finally just shrugged. “Alright, sure. Sorry I made you wait, you know, lurking out here in the dark like a creeper for half an hour. Too bad you couldn’t have just come in and asked me to move— oh wait. Yeah, no, that’s totally a thing you could’ve done.”

“Talia would’ve insisted I stay for dinner.” Examining his nails, Peter didn’t seem like he was in a rush to get his ass off Stiles’ car. “And after a few hours of playing nice with the lace-curtain wolves of Beacon Hills, I need some me time.”

Someone else might have complained about being worn out from spending the afternoon with twenty-five hyper kids, chased around the yard and climbed all over like a jungle gym, even if it had been enjoyable at the time. It was tiring no matter how much fun it was, Stiles knew from experience.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, twirling his keys in a way that was partly habit, and partly trying to encourage Peter to take a hint and get moving. “I’ve got a long, beautiful night of uninterrupted work, greasy take-out, and a couple hours of Netflix to look forward to.” He was probably going to game for a while too, and take advantage of the freedom to curse as violently and colourfully as possible without little ears around.

“Work?” Peter spared a brief glance at the swinging, clinking keys, but didn’t budge an inch. “And what is it you do, Stiles? When you’re not championing shifter rights and making dog jokes in the same breath, that is.”

“I build websites.” Which was the much easier answer that usually satisfied people, compared to leading with ‘I’m a freelance web developer and designer’ and then having to explain the difference. “And I work at a bookstore. Also, I never said I wasn’t an asshole, but I will actually lay off the dog jokes if it bothers you.”

“Just work on some better material,” Peter said, waving off any notions of offense. “Distemper shots, really?”

“That was clever as shit and you know it.”

“Please. The pups tell better jokes, and theirs are mostly knock-knock and what I would call, at a stretch, _surreal_ humour. Random babble, punchline optional, that sort of thing.” Peter’s head tilted, considering, and the light from the porch made his eyes gleam. “I could probably get a couple of them to give you some tips.”

Stiles let out the driest laugh possible, keeping it to a single bland _ha_. Finally, if only to end what was quickly evolving into flirting with his kids’ future kindergarten teacher outside the dude’s sister’s house, he snapped his fingers and pointed, first at Peter, then out toward the Benz.

“Gracias,” he said, after another extended moment of deadlock finally ended with Peter rising smoothly off the hood, never breaking eye contact as he slinked a few steps away from the car. Stiles could feel a wash of goosebumps shivering up his arms; there was something lethal in the way Peter’s muscles moved, like the man was more liquid than solid. More wolf than man, definitely. It was stupidly sexy, and the dark, quiet woods around them certainly added a secluded vibe to the whole thing.

Stiles swallowed hard, and wrenched his eyes away so fast, he almost lost his balance. This was bad. He was a bad man.

“You just wait,” he said, stepping forward with his keys and unlocking his door. His dick might currently be down with this whole _Big Bad Wolf_ thing, but there were a thousand really important reasons why letting that fantasy run away with him was not going to happen. “Next year, I’m sending my kids to you primed with a different joke every day. Comedy freaking gold. Hey, what’d the wolf say when somebody stepped on his toe?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Peter rolled his eyes skyward, looking well and truly pained now, instead of just unbearably edible in that goddamn army green v-neck. “I’m not doing it.”

“Aaa _oooowww_!” The twins did a very enthusiastic howl for this joke, sometimes so boisterous that Scott needed his inhaler afterward, but they’d learned it all from their old man. Stiles opened the car door, leaning against it with a broad, smug grin. If _his_ ears were ringing with the echos of that epic effort, Peter had to be in great shape. “And _that_ is the first-class caliber of humour you can expect from Team Stilinski, so I hope you’re adequately prepared.”

“I’ll draft my resignation letter tonight.”

“Man, that was beginner level. You’re weak sauce.”

Shaking his head, apparently ready to abandon the conversation into the depths it had sunk, Peter turned and started toward his own car. There was a dull thud as the Benz’s doors unlocked, keyless and slick.

Stiles clambered into the Kia, doing a quick visual sweep to make sure the kids hadn’t left anything they’d need overnight, then started her up. His initial plan was to back up, then pull ahead again and do a full u-turn in the empty space beside Peter’s car, just to prove the ridiculous amount of room that was actually drivable. Part way through, he had a thought.

He stopped beside the Benz that was possibly worth as much as his house, and rolled down his passenger side window.

“Hey, Peter!” There was a pause, then the lightly tinted driver’s window receded, revealing Peter’s unimpressed frown, along with the car’s glitzy dashboard and gorgeous leather interior. Stiles leaned over his gearshift, even though Peter could almost definitely hear him perfectly well.

“You remember when we were talking on the deck,” Stiles said. “And I said ‘let’s say I buy that’ _shifters are inhuman_ thing? Yeah, I don’t actually buy it. If we were that wildly different, completely separate species, we couldn’t interbreed. And hey, living proof, right here.”

“A grey wolf can breed with a pomeranian,” Peter answered immediately, because of course he had a rebuttal already prepared. “They’re distantly related, granted, but you wouldn’t call them similar. You certainly wouldn’t say they were equally dangerous.”

“Okay, first? I’m telling my dad you called him a pomeranian and giving him your plate number. Dude’s the county sheriff, so enjoy your traffic tickets.” Peter might have come into this ready to rumble, but Stiles had never been a slouch when it came to a good argument. He also had a BA in Political Science with a minor in Public Policy, and a pretty damn personal connection to shifter rights, even if he was human himself.

“Second—” Stiles counted it out on his fingers for emphasis. “Do you think my daughter is any less wolf than you are?”

“What?” Peter’s eyes narrowed as understanding dawned, but his answer was still more emphatic than it was begrudging. “Of course not, no.”

“Nah, of course not. No hybrid pups here, baby.” With a flick of his wrist, Stiles favoured Peter with a playfully self-satisfied finger gun salute. “You’re either shifter, or you’re not. Sounds more like genetics than a species thing to me, what about you? Maybe dominant and recessive—”

“Are you two just going to sit out here all night?” Talia called from the porch, making Stiles jump so hard he knocked his knee against the steering wheel. “Because this isn’t a drive-thru. Get going, or come in and eat.”

“He’s blocking me in,” Peter replied tartly, but at a normal, conversational volume; Talia had probably only raised her voice for Stiles’ benefit.

“Okay, yeah, I’m going. I’m gone.” Edging his foot back onto the gas, Stiles pulled slowly away from the Benz, waggling his fingers at Talia as he made the u-turn. “G’night, Hales.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve also included an OC Hale sibling, just because I liked the idea of Peter and Talia having a human big sister (we’ll meet her properly soon). If you’re interested in my faceclaims for Bethany, Brendan, and Lucy, they’re Lana Parrilla (Bethany), Ed Quinn (Brendan), and either Denise Bidot or Aubrey Plaza (Lucy).


	9. Cujo Halehound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief warning going forward: neither Peter nor Stiles have entirely average, healthy ideas of boundaries. They're also both unapologetic about it. If you want to know specifics, skip to the end note.

Stiles received the first text two days after Christmas. It was only nine-thirty, but he was already sprawled out across his queen-sized bed, considering whether or not he had the energy to venture downstairs for a truly legendary leftover turkey sandwich. Slipping into blissful unconsciousness instead was also a very attractive option. The bookstore was absolutely banging in a post-Christmas rush, and he was working steady shifts until New Year’s, splitting pretty much every waking moment between the store and the kids. On top of that, the full moon had landed smack dab in the middle of everything, and while Malia had always seemed to have a weirdly good handle on herself and her baby shift, it was never exactly a stress-free night.

It had been a decent haul of gifts for the peanuts this year, and yeah, maybe Stiles had gone out and grabbed a few extra things at the last minute, but both his kids had just gotten a full-ride scholarship to private school. He was allowed to splurge a bit.

He’d let them kick his ass at Mario Party for about an hour before hustling them off to bed, and then got conned into reading two stories. Now Stiles was a pitiful sack of bone-weary restlessness, silently lamenting the fact that the kids’ winter break from preschool always happened when he was brutally busy at work, and he didn’t see that changing anytime soon. The website contracts were more lucrative than the retail gig, and he had a good portfolio under his belt that had started to net a steady, growing stream of clients, but it wasn’t a guaranteed, regular paycheque.

His cell chirped, and Stiles craned his neck to glance at the screen glowing on his bedside table. When he couldn’t make out the name on the message from where he’d starfish flopped over his duvet, he forced himself to stretch, pawing lazily until he got his fingers wrapped around the phone and could drag it within reading distance.

He’d already taken his contacts out for the night, so he adjusted his glasses absently— his dad still hadn’t stopped giving him shit about becoming an old man, ever since Stiles had realised he was squinting to read the PowerPoint slides in lectures during his second year of university. He’d tried just glasses first, because contacts were gross, and he wasn’t thrilled about the cost or the idea of poking himself in the eyes every day. He’d still been covered under his dad’s health insurance at the time, which had been a serious bonus, and both Lydia and Lucy had insisted he looked hot in the square black frames. Not a bad deal.

Having a pair of babies always grabbing the glasses off his face and smearing the lenses with their sticky little hands eventually won him over to the dark side, though.

Even with his glasses, he squinted at his phone screen anyway, confused. He didn’t recognize the number, and the message simply read: _The hybridization point is somewhat valid._

After a moment of consideration, Stiles tapped out the only response that made any sort of sense: _Peter?_

And got a reply so quickly, it almost felt impatient: _Yes._

Then a couple seconds later, another message came through: _Though the interbreeding issue on its own is moot. Some different species can breed together. Big cats, horses and donkeys etc._

Okay. Apparently Peter Hale was texting him now. Stiles considered that unexpected development, and quickly added the number to his contacts before he could reconsider. It wasn’t a bad thing to have contact information for his kids’ kindergarten teacher.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Did talia give u my #???_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Does it matter?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Uhhh not really man just curious_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I took it from your file in Alan’s office. There’s rarely anyone there over winter break._
> 
> _Also, I knew your name couldn’t really be ‘Stiles Stilinski’_

Oh, holy hell, _no_. Stiles gaped at his phone screen, feeling a little like he’d been sucker punched. It wasn’t actually about the invasion of privacy, although that seemed pretty inappropriate and wow, _rude_. Stiles sort of had to cut the guy a break, to be fair, since he’d already called in a favour or two and dug far into Peter Hale’s background, way past the point of legality.

The dude was going to be taking care of Stiles’ _kids_. That definitely warranted some felony-level investigating, and with contacts on both sides of the law when it came to cybercrimes, Stiles had that covered.

His own creepy snooping wasn’t on trial here, though. The thing was, other than anybody handling his super serious, official documents, there were only a select few people on the planet who knew Stiles’ actual first name. Even his debit and credit cards all had him as _Stiles Stilinski_ ; his degree had his full legal name, but with _Stiles_ included. California’s ‘usage method’ meant that technically, _Stiles_ was also legitimate, since that was the name he’d been going by since he was seven years old.

The Fáelán paperwork had been insanely detailed, though— they’d asked for his blood type, for god’s sake. It’d seemed strange at the time, but not invasive enough to make him risk leaving anything blank. His kids weren’t getting screwed out of a good school because airing out that much personal info and history had made their dad break out in hives.

His phone dinged again, vibrating against his palm.

> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I would say “no parent would be that cruel” but now that I’ve seen your real name, I know they definitely would be._

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Stiles flung one arm over his forehead, already resigned to dealing with this bullshit. It was always the same crap, but for some reason, he found himself responding in a flurry instead of shutting the discussion down without mercy, like he’d usually do in this situation.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Omg_
> 
> _Srsly shut up_
> 
> _It’s a family name_
> 
> _Not my fault if u can’t say it brah_
> 
> _Totes traditional Polish_
> 
> _Classic and distinguished_
> 
> _European and sophisticated_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I think the phrase you’re so desperately searching for is ‘onomastic quagmire’_

Stiles made a weak, whiny noise in the back of his throat, not completely certain if the entirely unnecessary and obviously scripted linguistic showboating was a turn on or not. He’d have bet money that Peter had that one waiting in his back pocket since he’d found Stiles’ name. It was sort of ridiculous, definitely obnoxious, and possibly a weird kind of charming.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _What  
>  _
> 
> _What even r u_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’ll admit I had to google the pronunciation. I still don’t think I’m getting the first syllable. Is it actually supposed to sound like a sneeze or…?_

“Are you freaking kidding me?” He was a twenty-six year old, grown ass man, and this was some schoolyard teasing shit, right here. Stiles dragged himself up, propping his shoulders against his pillows.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Omfg am I being cyberbullied by a kindergarten teacher rn? Is this a thing happening_
> 
> _Ur supposed to be a good role model for kids smh_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’m a sterling role model. Monday to Friday, between the hours of 7:30am and 2:30pm._

Leaning back, Stiles huffed out a completely involuntary laugh. What a _dick_.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Wow didn’t think classes started til 8?? U give so generously of ur time mr hale_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _What can I say. I’m a morning person.  
>  _
> 
> _Also, I supervise breakfast program._

Well, that was unexpected. Stiles remembered reading something about a breakfast program at Fáelán, but he wouldn’t have pegged it as Peter’s scene.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Ur kidding_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’m not. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  
>  _
> 
> _And would you really want to risk being stuck in a classroom with a dozen hungry five year olds?_

Some mornings, Stiles could barely keep two of them from staging a coup. Mentioning the Great Cheerios Debacle, even months after the fact, was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Yea ok that’s fair  
>  _
> 
> _Btdubs did u srsly txt me to argue shifter rights again_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I thought we were discussing, not arguing, but yes._
> 
> _Among other things._

_Among other things_? Stiles blinked at his phone, rubbing a thumb over the line of his jaw.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _What_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _We were just talking about your name and my work schedule, so it’s not as though we’re tied to one topic._

That was such a smartass non-answer, Stiles was halfway impressed. He couldn’t quite bring himself to seriously contemplate the idea that Peter had actually texted him for the vaguely flirty banter, because that way madness lay. Having the dude message him for some intelligent conversation was more than alright, though.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Tru_
> 
> _So do u buy it now that we’re not totally different species?_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’m considering it._

“It’s okay, baby,” Stiles murmured, smirking at his cell. “You don't have to say it. I know I’m good. It’s why they call me the _master debater_.”

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Genetics man_
> 
> _Maybe ur a mutant and I mean that in the best way_
> 
> _Mutations r rad_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _For the record, it was Talia who vetoed “Hale’s School for Gifted Youngsters” when the academy needed a name.  
>  _
> 
> _How about this. Have you considered lycanthropy as a disease?_

“Whoa— whoa dude.” Just like that, any trace of levity slid off Stiles’ face, despite the solid X-Men reference. That second text was straying awfully close to some common anti-shifter rhetoric. “Slow your roll.”

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _U mean disease like a condition or disease like the flu_
> 
> _Cuz I’m p sure u can’t catch shifter from a cough or sharing drinks or whatev_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I mean a condition that can be passed down by birth. Or even contracted._
> 
> _You’ve heard rumours about Alpha bites, I imagine._

Holy shit. Stiles sat straight up, cupping both hands around the back of his phone and re-reading Peter’s last text. Was this serious?

For basically the entirety of recorded history, werewolves had been the stuff of folklore and cheesy horror movies— of literally _centuries_ of legend. Of course there had been endless rumours since shifters had gone public. There were also way too many gullible idiots or outright malicious bastards, eager to test whatever shit they’d read about in the latest inane chain email, or on the sort of nasty, anti-shifter forums that had popped up in some of the grosser corners of the internet.

Silver bullets usually only pissed shifters off, as it turned out. Wolfsbane was indeed incredibly poisonous, but that wasn’t really a surprise; even if the name wasn’t an enormous clue, most aconitum plants were pretty deadly to humans too.

But the biting thing… the idea that _lycanthropy_ could actually be passed on to a human through a bite, hadn’t ever been proven, and it wasn’t something shifters discussed in mixed company. According to his dad, Claudia had never mentioned it, and John hadn’t pushed.

Stiles had been shut down hard every single time he’d asked Jackson about it, and after a few too many discussions had ended with sharp words and crackling tension, eventually he’d decided to just let it go. He and Jackson had somehow managed to achieve this affectionately hateful frenemy stage of their relationship a long time ago, and no matter how agonizingly curious he was, Stiles wasn’t about to risk fucking that up beyond repair, all for the sake of a rumour.

There was just enough calculated uncertainty built up around the whole thing, anyway, that Stiles was completely convinced it was true, even without solid proof. He was sure, and he had a strong feeling his dad was too, that not every shifter had been born that way. There were reasons why the government kept even closer tabs on Alphas than they did other shifters, and it wasn’t only an issue of power or influence.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Rumours yea_
> 
> _U gonna confirm or deny?_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Neither. I’d rather not risk losing my werewolf club card, thanks._

“Son of a bitch.” Stiles wasn’t terribly surprised by the answer. Of course Peter was just screwing with him. Another text arrived before Stiles could respond.

> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I mean it’s like a disease with symptoms that can be deadly to others. And when a disease can be potentially deadly, people take precautions.  
>  _

Again, Stiles felt a clench of discomfort because of the direction Peter was taking this. The guy had talked a big game about ‘not hiding his nature,’ and he’d certainly hadn't appeared concerned about showing off his more wolfish behaviour the couple of times he and Stiles had interacted. He didn’t _seem_ like a self-hating shifter, and for the most part he was fascinating to talk to about this stuff, but Stiles reminded himself that he didn’t really know the dude.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _If u start talking about shifter leper colonies I’m done jsyk_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Don’t be ridiculous._
> 
> _I’m not talking about quarantines, but no one blinks an eye at humans who wash their hands more often during flu season or wear condoms to avoid STIs._

There was a joke there somewhere about sexually transmitted wolfiness, but Stiles wasn’t really feeling it at the moment. He waited, mulling over the last few texts without replying, until finally Peter messaged him again.

> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’m saying that it’s enormously harmful for both sides to pretend werewolves aren’t deadly predators living among you. Integration will only work in the long term if we don't forget that fact._

For a minute, Stiles wished Peter could see him. It was going to be challenging to imbue text with the full depth of his annoyed disbelief; being able to visibly scoff would have been helpful. Shifters could be so damn _melodramatic_.

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Never said I was forgetting that, bigby_
> 
> _All I’m saying is ur fuzzy predator ass isn’t as scary as u seem to think  
>  _
> 
> _I’m v aware of what big teeth u have and v not scared_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Yes well, maybe you’re not the best gauge. I have an odd feeling your survival instincts aren’t calibrated properly.  
>  _
> 
> _Bigby?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Fables comics? TWAU? No?_

There was a lull, without the ellipsis to indicate Peter was composing a reply. Stiles let the silence stand, rolling out of bed with a quiet groan. The last dregs of leftover turkey were in the fridge, calling his name, and he’d ignored that siren song for too long. He padded out of his room, and made it to the bottom of the stairs before his phone chirped again.

> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Big bad wolf. Wow. Very clever._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Ur just pissed u had to google it ;)_
> 
> _And here I was hoping u were a stealth nerd_
> 
> _Gym bunny bod w super secret comic collection_

“Oh shit,” Stiles hissed, helplessly watching the last text send, with no option to cancel. He pressed his forehead against the cold door of the fridge, and swiftly decided his best bet was to just go with it. Yeah, it might have edged across a line, and there was something particularly bad about having text proof of his lack of brain-to-mouth filter, but it was... relatively harmless. Miles away from the dirtiest thing he’d thought about the other guy, but _fuck_ , that was not the wisest train of thought to consider at the moment.

It wasn’t the end of the world. It probably just felt like a bigger deal to him because he was hung up on how stupidly attractive the dude actually was. He’d apologize if he’d fucked up and Peter was uncomfortable, but otherwise, his plan was to take full ownership of his fumble and laugh it off.

> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Gym bunny bod. Really._
> 
> _Appreciating the view, Stiles? I’m flattered._
> 
> _But just to be clear: this is all natural werewolf physique and an exquisite combination of genes. I get enough exercise chasing after the pups._
> 
> _And occasionally “chasing fluffy bunnies” in the woods, of course._

So Peter had indeed been listening to the Freeze Tag pep talk at the birthday party. And, more importantly, he didn’t seem immediately freaked out by the idea that Stiles had maybe noticed that he was hot like fire, and might have been checking him out. A little.

That was… something. Stiles wasn’t ready to decide what it was, but it was something. A relief, at least. And maybe exactly the sort of encouragement he didn’t need.

Grabbing the nearly empty tupperware dish of turkey, some other sandwich paraphernalia, and the last few leftover pierogi that he’d managed to successfully hide behind a couple jars of random condiments, Stiles piled it all on the countertop before composing his reply. He made three false starts before his sleep-deprived brain finally decided that pushing the flirting line a bit harder was totally the way to go.

> **To Cujo Halehound:  
>  **
> 
> _Imagining u in sweatbands and shorts running down thumper is def the high point of this chat. What a visual._
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Whatever gets you hot, sweetheart._

With his elbows braced on the counter, Stiles bit a cold sauerkraut pieróg in half and stared at his phone. Apparently, if Stiles was going to push the flirt line, Peter had no compunctions about pushing back. Or, you know, Sparta kicking him right over it.

> **To Cujo Halehound:  
>  **
> 
> _Bet u say that to all the single dads_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Only the very interesting and attractive ones._

“Holy shit.” Stiles cradled his cheek in one hand, stuffing another pieróg into his mouth; this one turned out to be cheese and potato. The skin under his palm felt embarrassingly warm. He wasn’t imagining this. There was proof right in front of him, in an innocuous grey text bubble. “Shit— oh, _shit_.”

“Dad?” At the sound of Scott’s sleepy, slurred voice, Stiles’ slapped his phone down, wincing at the loud thud of the case against the countertop. There were two fluffy-headed kids standing in the kitchen doorway when Stiles turned around; it felt like being cornered by the cops, which was a panic Stiles was a bit too familiar with for his own comfort, or his dad’s for that matter.

“I’m thirsty,” Malia said, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand, while Scott frowned so hard it looked like his eyebrows were trying to fuse with his bottom lip.

“Pierogi,” he said, shuffling forward on his little bare feet, and the look of utter betrayal sweeping over his face was almost enough to make Stiles feel guilty for squirreling food away from his own kids. Then he remembered his dad telling him that Scotty had inhaled about two dozen pierogi when they’d had them for dinner on Christmas Eve, while Stiles had been stuck late at work. And just like that, guilt _gone_.

“Fine, but just one, you scrounger.” Stiles held out the tupperware dish, bringing it within reach of grasping fingers. “It’s late. You want one too, baby girl?”

Malia shook her head, uninterested in a snack. She’d brought her plastic cup down from her room, and was busy filling it with cool tap water. The break from preschool, coupled with the full moon, had messed their sleep schedules up more than Stiles had hoped. This wasn’t the first night they’d come wandering after bedtime.

It wasn’t until he was getting them hustled back upstairs a short while later, fed and watered respectively, that Stiles spared a thought for his cell.

“Your phone’s cheeping,” Malia murmured against his hip while the three of them staggered into the twins’ room. She tried to imitate the noise, but ended up blowing a lazy raspberry into his t-shirt instead, and both kids were instantly lost to silly, sleepy giggles.

“Right, okay, peanuts in their shells.” Stiles tugged back Scott’s blankets, and didn’t bother to argue when Malia crawled up onto the mattress after her brother, despite her own perfectly good bed waiting on the other side of the room. It was the night after a full moon, and his little girl was feeling cuddly. He tucked them in loosely, carding his fingers through Scott’s thick hair, then gave them both a gentle boop on the nose. “Sleep, pups.”

The word sat strangely on his tongue, but not unpleasantly— _pups_. It sounded alright, even if it wasn’t a term he used often.

Scotty let out a quiet, puppish yip before settling. Malia’s breathing was already evening out as she drifted off, steady and slow.

Clicking off the bedside lamp, leaving only the dim red glow of their night light by which to navigate, Stiles carefully picked his way back out into the hall. When he got down to the kitchen, he grabbed his cell, temporarily ignoring the leftovers.

There was one unread text waiting for him, and about twenty minutes of nothing between it and Peter’s previous message.

> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _You can tell me if I overstepped._

Taking a minute to tuck the turkey back in the fridge, feeling too jittery to continue his sandwich plans for the night, Stiles started typing out his reply with one thumb.

> **To Cujo Halehound:  
>  **
> 
> _Was raiding the fridge n got caught by pups. Had to tuck em in again_
> 
> _U didn’t overstep_
> 
> _I'll b first to tell u if u do I'm not shy_

Peter’s response came after Stiles had polished off the last two pierogi, and was sucking oil off his fingertips.

> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Good to know._

 

* * *

 

Stiles was busy sorting out whatever natural disaster had destroyed a bargain table, shifting books back into orderly piles and making sure customers hadn’t left any garbage on the display, when he heard the bell above the door chime. They were well into the mid-January, post-holiday slump of business now, and he wasn’t the only one working that afternoon, so he didn’t immediately get up and go check on the noise. In fact, he didn’t give it much thought at all until a minute later when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

The display table was wide, and he was stretched out almost flat across it instead of bothering to walk all the way around to the other side, straining to adjust one of the bright SALE signs that had been knocked askew. With a final poke, he abandoned the mostly straight sign and turned to the customers creeping up behind him.

“Hi, is there— oh, hey!” _Creeping_ wasn’t the totally unfair phrasing it could have been, as it turned out. Stiles had already decided that Hales were all inherently sneaky little shits, and that generalization definitely held true for the pair he found staring back at him.

The bright orange and blue Knicks cap did great things for framing and exaggerating Derek’s dark caterpillar eyebrows, and as an added bonus, it clashed heinously with his grass green sweater. Stiles sort of wanted to give him a high-five for the fashion disaster alone.

Peter, unsurprisingly, looked intimidatingly stylish in some kind of fitted wool jacket and jeans combo. And maybe he also looked like he’d been shamelessly checking out Stiles’ ass.

“Derek! What’s up, dude?” This was precisely the wrong moment to consider whether Peter appreciated the way Stiles filled out his khakis. Dropping into a squat, Stiles held out his fist for a bump, which Derek provided. The kid had a familiar plastic gift card clutched in his other hand; there was a rack of them up behind the register, ready to be loaded with cash.

“Hi, Stiles,” Derek said, with a shy smile just wide enough to see that he was missing a bottom tooth too, like Malia. Somebody needed to save Stiles from these dangerously adorable kids. “Uncle Peter said you’d be here— you weren’t the other day when Mom brought me. I got my card.”

“You do? That’s great, man.” Stiles let his attention flicker up for a second, landing on Peter. They’d been texting back and forth for the last three weeks or so, mostly friendly debate and frequent flirting, but this was the first time they’d actually seen each other since Derek’s party. “And I promised I’d help you find something awesome, didn’t I? Well, let’s get to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specifics: Peter breaks in to Deaton's office and gets private information about Stiles. Stiles uses legal and illegal contacts to get private information about Peter. Next chapter, which is Peter's POV, there'll be some vaguely stalker-ish behaviour.
> 
> Next chapter: Peter POV, some Hales, and some Steter <3


	10. Shelf Indulgence

“I already promised Laura I’d take her to the pool after school tomorrow, Talia.” Brendan was making short work of dicing a truly enormous onion, but he stopped with the knife tip resting against the cutting board to level his wife with a frustrated look. “I’ve got those drafts to finish for the Morrison project, and I’ll be wrangling the three of them by myself all week while you’re in Portland, and then we’ve got the Wolf Moon right after you get back. This just really isn’t a good time. Maybe… maybe we can squeeze it in on Saturday?”

“I feel terrible leaving it for so long,” Talia said, rinsing her hands and turning the kitchen taps off with the back of her wrist. “It’s already been almost a month, and I know Derek won’t make a fuss like the girls would, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother him. It’s too easy to push him aside when we don’t mean to.”

Perched at the breakfast bar, flicking idly through the news on his iPad, Peter bit back the commentary that immediately sprang to mind about Derek being such a perfect, textbook Beta. The boy was relatively even-tempered for a pup his age, with a tendency to fall into broodiness instead of flaring with anger, though puberty might change that. He wasn't pushy, though odds were he'd grow into a strong man, and he was quite tractable if handled with even a modicum of finesse. If, for whatever reason, Laura was skipped over when it came time to decide Talia’s successor, Peter’s money was firmly on Cora being tapped as Alpha apparent instead. Both girls had that spark, itching to burst into a roaring fire. Derek was more the steady, smouldering ember sort.

Not that there was anything wrong with that; in fact, it might spare them some drama in the long run if all three of Talia’s pups weren’t apt to be jockeying for dominance. A strong Pack needed strong Betas, and Derek was a good kid.

But Peter was trying to stay firmly out of the conversation his sister and brother-in-law were having— the same spiral of chatter they’d been stuck in since before he arrived, and which he was actively ignoring. He’d already offered to help with the food, been politely and expectedly rebuffed, and now he was stuck loitering in the kitchen, silently cursing the lack of traffic that had made his drive over to the house much quicker than he’d planned. He despised being the first one to arrive for their twice-a-month Sunday dinner, without Beth there to act as a distraction.

Whatever scheduling problems Talia and Brendan had gotten themselves into, Peter flatly refused to get dragged into it too. He wasn’t going to open his damned mouth, and if Talia thought she could—

“I should call Stiles,” his sister said, out of the blue, and Peter’s finger stuttered over his tablet screen for a split second before he reined himself in. He didn’t doubt Talia had noticed the blip of reaction, but he wasn’t going to give her anything more. “Ask him when his shifts actually are, and when would be a good time to drop by.”

“I think I said that.” The onions hissed and crackled when Brendan scraped them into a hot saucepan. “Before you wasted a trip over there the last time, and it turned out he wasn’t even working.”

A car was rumbling up towards the house— Bethany and Marin’s by the sound of it— and Peter quickly weighed the pros and cons of waiting to see if he could ferret out more information before actually getting involved. If he waited, it was very likely that someone else would ask the questions threatening to spill out of him, and Peter wouldn’t necessarily need to betray his own interest in the situation. But waiting also meant a larger audience of relatively observant people, and worse than that, they all knew him too well. At least half of them were assholes, and the moment they sensed a whiff of his genuine curiosity, they’d be impossible to deal with.

The fewer people aware of his new fascination, the better. At least for the moment.

“A trip to a bookstore is hardly a waste,” Peter said, making an educated guess and a decision to involve himself in one fell swoop. He glanced up from his iPad, levelling Brendan with an unimpressed stare. It was safer than looking at Talia; if he caught even a flicker of smugness in his sister’s expression, Peter couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. “What a godawful sentiment, Bren, honestly.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Brendan’s forehead wrinkled, beetle-browed and always so painfully sincere. “But it’s halfway across town, and the parking is terrible, especially if I have to take the Range Rover. Anyway, don’t you order all your books online?”

While that was perfectly true most of the time, Peter had recently been considering switching back to a brick-and-mortar shopping experience. He’d decided to be patient about it for the sake of subtlety, but this whole mess sounded as though Derek might provide the perfect excuse to visit Stiles at work, much sooner than Peter had planned.

Peter shrugged, and started slowly scrolling through some article without absorbing a word. “Speaking of books, you’re meeting with the Westerberg Pack, aren’t you, Talia?”

“Among others,” Talia said, as Peter listened to the crunch of dried leaves under tires, slowing down to park outside, and the thud of car doors closing. “Which is why you’re categorically _not invited_.”

As if Peter really wanted to drag his ass up to Oregon and snarl on command, while his sister pressed palms and played politician, and some milquetoast substitute coddled his Pack. A week of wolfsbane colonics sounded more pleasant.

“Well, that’s hurtful,” he said dryly, locking his tablet and setting it on the counter. “But not my point. The Westerbergs have a few texts in their family library I’d love to get my hands on— just a loan, nothing sinister. If you could talk them into parting with the books for a couple of months, I might just be convinced to pitch in with the pups while you’re gone. Drive them to school in the morning, help ferry them around a little afterward, that sort of thing.”

That got Brendan’s attention, as Peter had anticipated. Talia looked suspicious, with her arms crossed and her head cocked, but she was always going to be the harder sell.

“Seriously?” Brendan gave the onions a quick stir, then reached out and snagged Talia by the elbow, reeling her in against his barrel chest and bending himself nearly in half to tuck his nose against her neck. “Talia, honey, I’ll do anything—”

“We’re in the kitchen,” Peter called out for Beth’s benefit, after the front door swung open. He paid less attention to Talia and Brendan muttering at each other, and more to the incoming scents and sounds of his oldest sister and her girlfriend.

“Hello, hello,” Beth said as she swept in from the foyer, pushing pieces of her short, brown hair behind both ears. Peter unfolded himself from his barstool and padded over, leaning down to peck her cheek. He also tweaked the razored ends of her bangs, earning himself a swat.

“This is cute.” When he’d seen her last, at Derek’s family birthday get-together just after the New Year, her hair had been longer, swinging around her jaw in a slick bob. “And _crisp_. How much gel did you use? Jesus.”

“Shut up.” He didn’t try to touch the petrified pixie cut again, half afraid he’d stab himself, but Beth swatted him a second time anyway for good measure, slapping her manicured hand against his chest. “I just got it done this afternoon, and you know they always use way too much product at the salon.”

“You're going to the wrong salon,” he said, then favoured Marin with a smile where she was loitering in the kitchen doorway, holding a large Pyrex dish with a pink rubber lid. The smell of chocolate and coffee wafted around it, rich and sweet. “You bring dessert, and you don't hit. Marin, congratulations, you're my new favourite.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Marin replied, flicking her own long, dark hair back over her shoulder. “That sounds terrifying.” She rolled her eyes when he snapped his teeth at her, sauntering past to set the dish on the counter. They’d been dating for less than a year, but Marin was already far more fun than Beth’s last girlfriend, even if her presence in Beacon Hills included some rather tiresome, sanctimonious baggage.

“What’s with the love-in,” Beth asked in an exaggerated, mock-whisper, wrapping an arm around Peter’s waist and wedging herself against his ribs. Talia was ever so slightly taller than him when she wore heels, which was something Peter refused to let bother him, but Bethany had always been his littlest big sister, fitting neatly under his chin. Not that he’d risk getting quite that close at the moment, with Beth’s sharp, overdone hair; he wasn’t due for a shave.

Across the kitchen, Talia and Brendan were still chattering away, with their heads pressed close, probably speaking too quietly for either Beth or Marin to make out a word.

“Negotiations,” Peter said. “I’m trying not to listen, to be honest. Bren’s desperate, and it’s more than a little pathetic.”

Marin promptly stole Peter’s seat, crossing her legs and wrinkling her nose. “Is there a reason it smells like burning?”

“That would be the onions.” That word seemed to catch Brendan’s attention, even though Peter hadn’t raised his voice beyond conversational volume. Breaking away from Talia, he cursed under his breath, sliding the saucepan off the stove. The scent had been growing dangerously toastier for the past few minutes, but Peter hadn’t mentioned it. The beef roast in the oven still smelled fine.

When both Marin and Beth turned to Peter, wearing nearly matching looks of amused inquiry, he shrugged. “I was expressly forbidden from touching the food. Talia’s insane and hates my cat.”

“If you were as anal retentive about cat hair on your clothes as you are about everything else,” Talia said, leaving Brendan to his frustrated salvaging of their dinner. “It wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Hobbes sheds less than Derek—”

“Children,” Bethany said, waving a hand between them. “Please. Save the squabbling until I’ve had at least one glass of wine.”

Talia huffed, but didn’t argue, leaning one hip against the counter. “How much ass am I going to have to kiss for these books you want, Peter?”

Perfect. Brendan might be a bit too earnest and agreeable for Peter’s taste, but he could be useful.

“A minimal amount of ass, I promise.” He’d actually intended to bribe a Beta or two to _subtly liberate_ the books for him, whenever he got around to it, but this was much easier. It was so satisfying to multitask, especially when it meant he got to delegate some of the work to Talia. “They’re not terribly valuable, even if they are rare. Just… maybe don’t mention they’re for me, and you shouldn’t have any trouble.”

 

* * *

 

Peter had never stepped foot in this small, hole-in-the-wall bookstore, and he’d lived in Beacon Hills most of his life. Whenever he needed the sort of books that could be bought at a normal store, which was actually quite often given his appetite for fresh reading material, he usually ordered them online. On occasion, he’d browse at the local Barnes & Noble, but it was more convenient to have things delivered to his apartment.

 _Shelf Indulgence_ was an unassuming storefront, almost entirely covered in windows, wedged between a shoe repair shop and a tattoo parlour. There were a few other stores further along the strip— Peter could smell a deli, as well as the animal urine and sawdust stink of a pet store— and by the state of the parking lot, he guessed at least some of them were moderately busy. Stiles’ squarish, blue Kia was fairly easy to spot, parked far down at the back of the lot. There was an empty space right beside it, and Peter took advantage, rather than maneuvering into one of the handful of other spots much closer to the store. The walk would let Derek stretch his legs and get some fresh air.

A bell above the store’s front door jingled faintly when he held it open for Derek, but no pearly-toothed sales clerk popped into existence at the sound. It was shortly after four in the afternoon, and the store was surprisingly spacious enough that Peter relied on counting heartbeats to determine that there were five other people inside. One of those heartbeats was already familiar, thrumming steadily but slightly faster than average.

As it turned out, quick pulse or not, Stiles proved even easier to find than that. The man was spread out on his belly across a table of books near the front of the store, stretched long and lean, and straining up on his toes in a way that showcased the flex of his thighs and pert little ass in a pair of khaki pants. Peter could hardly be blamed for enjoying the view.

When Stiles straightened himself up, Peter had a momentary urge to push him back down with a firm hand on his nape, and bury his nose under the collar of Stiles’ rumpled button-down. Unlike the last time they’d been this close, there wasn’t a hint of Talia clinging to Stiles. Peter hadn’t quite realised how much his sister’s handsy scenting had bothered him until this minute.

He didn’t pay much attention to Stiles and Derek’s friendly greeting, until Stiles finally spared Peter a glance, looking up from his crouched pose. The angle did wonderful things for Stiles’ big, warm eyes, and precarious things to Peter’s self-control.

“Hey Peter,” Stiles said, rising to his feet and pointing Derek toward the brightly coloured kids’ section.

“Stiles.” Peter motioned vaguely to the stacks of blonde wooden shelves packed with books, and the faded purple carpeting. “I didn’t even know this place existed. It’s quaint.”

“The way you say ‘quaint’ sounds an awful lot like how a normal person would say ‘amateur dental surgery,’ by the by.” Reaching out, Stiles nabbed him by the side of his unbuttoned jacket, giving it a tug before letting go. “Come on, Cujo. You’re not going to catch kitsch just by breathing the air in here. Derek, dude, whatcha got?”

Following Stiles, Peter was hardly surprised to find Derek clutching some book dotted with stars, and a cartoon astronaut on the cover. His nephew’s long-running obsession with space was the reason Peter had decided to shift his Astronomy unit that year from May to December, to coincide with the boy’s birthday.

“Good choice,” Stiles was saying, but after giving the book cover a closer examination, Peter shook his head.

“You’ve got that one already, Derek.” Among many, many others cluttering up his room; it was actually refreshing what an avid little reader Derek was turning out to be.

Derek looked down at the book, then back up at Peter from under the brim of that damn hat. “I like this one.”

“Obviously.” Peter was about to ask if Derek had read and reread his copy to death and actually needed a replacement, which wouldn’t be the first time, but then Stiles was meandering farther down the aisle, drumming his fingers along the shelves and humming to himself.

“I really like that one too,” Stiles said, skimming over book spines. “You thinking about going to the moon, huh? _Very_ cool. Pretty sure I’ve got a couple more books for the future astronauts among us, if that’s your thing.”

The words were out, and it was too late to warn him. Peter grimaced, partly in sympathy for the mess Stiles had just unknowingly brought down on himself, but mostly he was annoyed about the inevitable sulk that was about to ruin the afternoon.

Derek’s shoulders hunched, as he curled protectively around the book still clutched in his hands, and a thin whine eked out of his throat. The pitiful noise, at least, was enough to grab Stiles’ attention from the shelves.

“Whoa, hey buddy? What’s wrong?” In other situations, Peter wouldn’t have made the effort to step in so soon and mitigate damages— watching how Stiles reacted might have been educational— but Derek was much more tolerable when he wasn’t wallowing in misery.

Stepping close, Peter wrapped one hand around the back of Derek’s neck, grounding him with steady, measured dominance. After an initial, probably instinctual lurch forward, Stiles was hanging back, twitching with uncertainty. He spread his hands, silently questioning.

“Werewolves can’t be astronauts,” Peter explained brusquely, and gave Derek a comforting squeeze when the boy let out another, softer whine. “We never could, even before the Anagnorisis, because we couldn’t risk exposure with all the medical tests. Now, we’re simply not allowed. You can add that to your list of werewolf-prohibited jobs.”

Stiles looked as though he’d been punched, caught between surprise and pain as he stared down at Derek. Then, without any warning, his expression furrowed into something far more determined.

“Hang on,” he said, whipping around and quickly grabbing a hardcover book from one of the shelves, before flopping down to sit on the carpet. Stiles bent his knees, propping the book up against his thighs. “C’mere a minute, Derek, my man. You see this?”

For a second, Peter wasn’t sure Derek was going to engage at all, but then the boy shuffled forward a few halting inches. Not far enough to dislodge Peter’s hand, but close enough to peek at whatever Stiles had to show him.

“You read this before?” Stiles asked, then smiled when Derek shook his head no. “This is [_Rosie Revere, Engineer_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOQkAvAzr14), and I swear, it is exactly the book for you. Know why?”

Another headshake, and Stiles glanced up at Peter. “Hey, you don’t mind hanging out for a few minutes, do you?”

“Not at all.” Peter was intrigued; the book wasn’t terribly familiar, but Stiles’ heartbeat hadn’t so much as skipped when he’d called it _exactly_ what Derek needed. When Stiles patted the floor beside him, Peter gave Derek a small push to encourage him to sit.

“Storytime, buckaroo,” Stiles said. Peter leaned one shoulder against the shelves, crossing his ankles, while Derek settled in with only a little hesitation.

The story was actually decent, and the rhyming wasn’t as obnoxious as it could have been. A young girl interested in engineering was a good premise to liven up the expected drama of doubting her dream, and the feel-good ending. Peter could see Derek’s posture opening up with each turn of the page, and Stiles’ animated enthusiasm was the keystone of the entire experience. He seemed truly engaged with the text and with the boy next to him, overacting just enough to keep Derek’s attention glued to every word.

By the time the story was finished, even Peter would admit to feeling a certain sense of encouragement. _The only true failure can come if you quit_. He’d built an entire career around that sentiment.

Snapping the book shut, Stiles nudged a clearly starstruck Derek with his elbow. “So, what’d you think?”

“That was _awesome_.” Derek bounced in place, his previous sourness abandoned for at least a few minutes. “She built a _cheese helicopter_!”

“She did,” Stiles agreed. “And you know what else? She did it herself, no matter how many people thought she couldn’t. Sometimes even _she_ thought she couldn’t. She made it happen, and even if it didn’t turn out perfect the first time, she decided to change things up and kept trying. Stuff might not work out exactly like you want or like you plan, but you gotta roll with it, and figure out how to do your own thing. Okay?”

Strangely poignant truths smothered in so much bullshit, and about as subtle as a baseball bat to the skull, but somehow it worked.

“Can I have this one?” Derek asked eagerly, and Stiles held the book out for him to take.

“Want to switch, or you want them both? If you liked _Rosie_ , I’ve also got _Iggy Peck, Architect_ , which is super cool. And there’s one called _Star Stuff_ you might like too, because it’s not just astronauts who… What?” Stiles trailed off, blinking at the stony intensity of Derek’s stare. When Derek didn’t offer any explanation except more weird staring, Stiles turned to Peter again, confused and possibly slightly panicked. It was a good look for him. “Is there something on my face? Did I do something?”

“My dad’s an architect.” Derek’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, pitched soft and reverent. Where another kid might react to a flood of unexpected joy by beaming ear-to-ear, Derek almost always screwed up his face like he was trying to set something on fire with his brain. It was only after the initial excitement had a chance to simmer down from that first overwhelming rush that Derek would break into smiles again.

What had started as a trainwreck of a shopping trip had somehow morphed into a schmaltzy life lesson and a book about architects. Peter dropped his head back against a shelf of books, amazed by the sheer luck that Stiles seemed to ooze from every pore.

A little while later, Derek was trotting up to the sales counter, three brand new books in hand and the most ridiculous, goofy grin plastered over his face. Peter lingered a step behind, letting his nephew handle the transaction himself, but pulled his wallet out at the same time. The gift card wasn’t going to cover the total, but after that entire production, Peter had no intention of telling Derek to put a book back.

Stiles ducked behind the counter and immediately called to a young human woman who was straightening up a nearby magazine display. “Abbie, c’mere for a sec and punch in your code, would you?”

The girl hummed an absent affirmative before coming over, leaning across the counter, and tapping a few keys on the register. She spared Peter and Derek a bright smile before strolling back to the magazines.

“Pass those this-a way, dude,” Stiles said, and made quick work of scanning all three books and sliding them into a bright yellow reusable bag. “Alright, that comes to twenty-four fifty. Still got that gift card?”

“Hang on,” Peter said, with his credit card already halfway out of his wallet. “That’s not right.” He was sure of his own math, but Stiles waved him off.

“Obviously you’re using my discount,” he said, taking the gift card Derek was holding out to him. The discount must have been why he’d needed another employee’s code. “You’re a teacher, but that’d only be twenty percent off— employee discount is thirty. Okay buddy, that’s twenty-four fifty from twenty-five bucks. Fifty cents left… Do you think you’re allowed to have a sucker, or is it too close to dinner?”

Derek craned his head back, staring desperately up at Peter like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“You’re being dumped straight back on your dad after this,” Peter said. “Loading you up with sugar isn’t going to bother me.”

“You’re all heart,” Stiles laughed, but still slid a wooden lollipop tree across the counter, close enough for Derek to choose one. “Go for it, D-Man. I’m weak for the cherry ones, but Abbie over there swears by the blue raspberry.”

That conjured up images of Stiles’ mouth stained red and sticky sweet, with his tongue curling wetly around glossy, slick candy. Peter filed that fantasy away for a more comprehensive perusal later. In the meantime, he waited for Derek to take his sucker and his bag of books, then scruffed the kid by the back of the jacket and hauled him around to face the rest of the store again.

“Go amuse yourself for a few minutes,” he said, setting Derek loose. “But remember you’re not buying anything else today. And if you get too sticky, you’ll be spending the drive home in the trunk. Shoo.”

There weren’t any other customers waiting by the registers, and Abbie had disappeared down one of the aisles. Prowling up to the edge of the counter, Peter paid particular attention to the way Stiles’ pupils dilated, even under the warm, LED light fixtures.

“That was very nice of you, Stiles.”

“Well, I’m a nice guy.” There was a very promising flutter in Stiles’ heartbeat, betraying that lie, even as flippant as it was. Grabbing a pen, Stiles jotted something on the back of Derek’s gift card, then stashed it away beside the register. “You mean the discount? The books are technically a present from me anyway, so it’s not even a thing.”

Peter hummed, giving the lollipop display a lazy turn. “The discount, and the story. In the habit of offering free shows?”

“It’s been known to happen. More often with the right incentive.” The smile that unfurled across Stiles’ face was slow and wicked, maybe just edging towards filthy. Then, far too abruptly, it faded. “And hey, it was the least I could do after I basically gutted the little guy.”

“Derek can be sensitive.” Probably too sensitive, but that wasn’t surprising. Talia wasn’t nearly the hard ass their mother had been when it came to her children, and Brendan was the werewolf equivalent of a Labrador Retriever. “And fickle. He’s hung up on space for now, but he’ll probably decide he wants to be a firefighter or a cop in a few months. Or after today, who knows, maybe an engineer.”

Stiles huffed a laugh, tapping out a quick, staccato rhythm along the counter with his knuckles. “I never wanted to be a cop. Basically living at the station when I was a kid sort of took the luster off, I guess.”

“Unpleasant truths,” Peter said. “Like watching sausages being made. My father was a doctor for years, and even if there weren’t a thousand hoops to jump through now for a werewolf, I never seriously considered medical school. Neither of my sisters did, either.”

“It’s weird,” Stiles said, sounding oddly thoughtful, then shifted gears without elaborating. “So, Derek said you were sure I’d be working today, but I don’t remember telling you my shifts this week.”

“Oh?” Taking a calculated risk, Peter made sure his tone of voice was far too innocent, and very obviously fake. “That’s strange. You must have mentioned it.”

He hadn’t, and they both knew it. Peter was quite curious to see if Stiles pressed the issue.

After a moment of narrow-eyed consideration, Stiles nodded. “Okay, mildly creepy. Great. Just so we’re clear, the first time I catch you in the bushes outside my house, I’m going to shoot you. And I wouldn’t bank on me missing; Dad started taking me to the range when I was eight. Shifter or not, I bet regular old bullets still sting like a bitch.”

Stiles smelled more amused than anything else, crisp and sweet, but with an undercurrent of something darker.

“And what about the second time you catch me?” Peter licked his lips, and didn’t bother to stifle his leer when Stiles’ attention dropped down, then almost instantly snapped back up. This was much more fun in person than through text. “Should I expect more of the same, or can I hope for a slightly warmer welcome?”

“I mean, if you're looking for warmer, I could probably find plans for a flamethrower online. Never built one before, but I’m good with my hands.”

Would climbing over the counter be too forward? Peter wasn't sure he cared.

“Alright, creeper,” Stiles said, unpinning the nametag from his chest. “I suppose it’s safe to assume you’re hanging around now because you know that I’m off, like, five minutes ago.”

“I’m hanging around because I enjoy your company, Stiles.” Peter leaned further against the counter, and flicked the lollipops again. “And maybe I’m a little jealous that I didn’t get offered a treat to suck on.”

“Oh my _god_.” Stiles tossed the nametag in a drawer and pushed it shut with more force than necessary. “I cannot believe you. You’re unbelievable. I am in disbelief. Walk me to my car, you absolute freak. I’ve got to get home and feed my kids.”

When Peter lingered, pointedly eyeing the lollipops, Stiles heaved a deep, full-bodied sigh.

“Jesus, I’m being pouted at by a grown man right now. Fine, whatever, take a damn sucker.” Lime or lemon would have been more his speed, usually, but Peter didn’t hesitate to pluck one of the cherry candies from the display. Stiles was already coming around the counter, giving the chrome call-bell beside the register a quick ding as he passed.

“Abbie? I’m headed out.” A hand popped up overtop one of the shelves further down in the store, twiddling a wave. Peter recognized the glittery blue nail polish; he’d noticed it when Abbie had entered her employee code.

“Have a good night,” Stiles called, shrugging into a black canvas jacket. “Could’ve sworn you came in with a kid, man.”

“You’re imagining things. Derek, we’re going.” Peter tugged the crinkly plastic wrapper off the sucker and popped the deep red candy in his mouth. The rush of artificial flavour and cloying corn syrup sweetness wasn’t nearly as delicious as the faint, spicy whiff of arousal and the uptick of Stiles’ pulse, but it served its purpose.

Derek appeared at the mouth of an aisle, with a white lollipop stick pinched between his lips, still clutching the bag of books like pure gold.

“Is Stiles coming to dinner?” Derek garbled around his candy, barely comprehensible, but apparently clear enough for Stiles to translate the question.

“Not tonight, buddy. I’ve got to go to my house and make dinner for Malia and Scott.” They meandered towards the exit, and Peter used a small burst of speed to grab the door before Stiles could reach it, holding it open. He took the sucker out of his mouth with a wet pop, and made sure to catch Stiles’ eye before slowly drawing it back in.

 _Stop it_ , Stiles mouthed silently as he slipped past, motioning at the completely unaware little boy trotting out of the store ahead of them. Peter pressed a palm against his own chest, widening his eyes in an exaggerated show of _who me_?

“My dad’s making dinner too,” Derek said, now with his partially chewed sucker in his hand. He didn’t stray far, but he did keep a few steps ahead as they walked across the parking lot, hopping over every crack in the pavement. “It’s Wednesday, so Mom’s supposed to cook tonight ‘cause it’s her turn, but she’s in _Oregon_. Is Wednesday your turn?”

Derek was never this chatty with people, unless they were Pack, but Stiles had managed to foster a sense of familiarity very quickly. It likely had something to do with his twins, and how easily they’d fallen into friendship with all three of Talia’s pups. Peter had a good feeling about the sort of packmates Malia and Scott would make when the new school year started.

“Well, most days are my turn, buddy,” Stiles answered, walking along less than an arm’s length away from Peter, with his hands shoved in his coat pockets. “I like cooking. But sometimes we get takeout, or my dad cooks, and if we’re really lucky, some nights when Mel’s over she takes over the whole kitchen. She makes these stuffed chicken breasts that are _so good_ , I can’t even explain, and her lasagne? Holy cow, man, I’m getting a grumbly tummy just thinking about it.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration; Peter could hear the man’s stomach gurgling. Derek probably could too, if his giggling was any indication.

“Why am I not surprised,” Stiles said when they approached their respective cars, parked side-by-side.

“Because you’re very clever,” Peter replied easily. “Derek, hands.”

The boy shoved the candy back in his mouth and held up his arms, showing Peter his bare palms. They weren’t stained with any sticky purple residue, which meant the wet wipes could stay in the glove compartment.

“You’re lucky, pup. My gym bag’s in the trunk, and it would’ve been a tight squeeze.” He popped the back door open, leaving Derek to clamber into his booster seat on his own.

“Thought you didn’t go to the gym,” Stiles said, loitering around the hood of the Benz. Shutting his nephew away in the car, Peter sauntered back into Stiles’ space, slightly too close for the standards of human politeness, and popped the cherry lollipop out of his mouth again.

“I run.” Peter guessed that at least some of the red dye had transferred to his lips, if Stiles’ wandering attention was any indication. The man seemed utterly incapable of keeping his eyes from straying to Peter’s mouth. “And I enjoy a game of pickup basketball every once in a while. Hardly a _gym bunny_. But please, feel free to keep imagining me sweaty and wearing shorts to your heart’s content.”

“Right back at you, dude.” Stiles didn’t stammer or attempt to deflect the reminder of their first text conversation. “I saw you checking out the goods when I was fixing that display. Not subtle, Cujo.”

“Wasn’t trying to be, sweetheart.” The blended scents of amusement and arousal made the air between them feel warmer, thicker, but it was all still simply teasing. Stiles held himself loosely, a casual slouch of limbs that neither pulled away or leaned closer, and Peter wasn’t going to push. Well, not much.

“It was good to see you, Stiles.” Moving slowly, Peter stretched out his hand, the one not holding the sucker. It wasn’t low enough to be mistaken for a handshake, held at level with Stiles’ shoulder instead. “May I?”

“You… uh, yeah.” Stiles’ eyes widened, and Peter watched his throat bob as he swallowed, but the heady sweetness between them didn’t sour. “Sure. Go for it.”

Closing the distance, Peter pressed his palm gently against the side of Stiles’ neck, pausing there for a moment to actually feel the hot, vital judder of the man’s pulse. Then he slid his hand upward, dragging carefully against thin skin and cords of tendon, until the tips of his fingers brushed the soft line of Stiles’ hair, just behind his ear.

The only humans Peter scented regularly were Bethany, and the young ones in his class. He usually went for hugs, or nuzzled his face into the crook of his sister’s neck rather than this formal process, and the pups were more likely to initiate the climbing and cuddling all over him, instead of the other way around.

Wolves ran hotter than humans, but there was a smoulder of heat under Peter’s thumb, where it rested on the faint, blotchy flush creeping up Stiles’ cheek.

“It’s not a bad little store,” Peter said, perfectly conversational, if somewhat quieter than before. “I may drop by again, now that I know it’s here.”

“Yeah, okay.” It hadn’t been phrased as a question, but Peter was pleased when Stiles treated it as one, giving him explicit consent to visit. “That’d be alright.”

That simmering pleasure flared into genuine delight when Peter caught movement out of the corner of his eye, seconds before he felt the first, halting touch against his own throat. Stiles’ hand was somewhat rougher than he’d expected, but the light scrape of callus being dragged over his neck was anything but a turn-off.

“Okay,” Stiles said again, after a long, charged moment that still managed to be far too brief. “I’m going to go before this gets weird.”

“Weird?” Just for that, Peter scratched his fingernails through the short hair at Stiles’ nape, smirking at the shiver it induced. “That’s not very culturally sensitive.”

Taking half a step back, Stiles dropped his hand and slipped out from beneath Peter’s touch, but not before rasping his fingertips over the stubble at Peter’s jaw.

“You’re such a dick,” Stiles said, visibly struggling to stifle a smile. When he made a grab for the sucker, Peter allowed it, and was rewarded by the sight of that spit-slick candy disappearing past the plush pink bow of Stiles’ lips.

“Well, you’re a little thief, so I guess we’re both works in progress.”

“Finders keepers.” The words smacked wetly, and Peter was keenly aware of the fake cherry taste lingering on his own tongue. “Plus, you’re the one who sort of shoplifted it, so. Later, Cujo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that a Marin Morrell I spy? Also, the "Sinister Fluff" tag is one of my new favourite things, so many thanks to mojenica.
> 
> Comments and kudos are the sparks that light my fire <3


	11. John Stilinski, Wingman

“What am I doing?” Stiles mumbled the question around his toothbrush, but he’d asked himself the same thing a hundred times already, over and over. It had been on constant loop in his head for hours, from the moment he pulled out of the parking lot at work with a pilfered lollipop and Peter Hale’s spit in his mouth.

He’d changed his clothes when he got home, shucking his khakis and work shirt in favour of a soft t-shirt and sweats, but he’d foregone his usual shower. Even if he couldn’t smell anything different, he could still feel the ghost of weight and heat on the side of his neck. It might have been profoundly embarrassing, and a really, _really_ bad idea, but he wasn’t eager to scrub that memory away just yet.

Malia had asked him why he smelled like candy and Uncle Peter when he got home and hugged her and Scott hello. The twins had been much more interested in the candy situation, specifically in whether or not there was any for them, but Stiles hadn’t missed the curious tilt of his dad’s head when Peter’s name was mentioned.

Seeing Peter in person again had successfully made everything way too real, and Stiles was not even slightly prepared to deal with this shit. Over text, it was so much easier to overlook the immensely irresponsible choices he was making. Over text, this was _all_ so easy, and it had felt exactly the same a couple of hours ago, when Peter was smirking at him from across the counter at work and fellating a lollipop. Easy, and fun, and ridiculously _good_.

This was a disaster.

Mr. Hale was his kids’ future kindergarten teacher. Peter was the dork who’d sent Stiles a selfie last night, with epic bedhead and a disgruntled looking cat curled up on his chest, captioned _Hobbes agrees you're a dipshit_. Suddenly, Stiles couldn’t justify keeping them separate in his head anymore, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with that.

Rinsing toothpaste foam down the sink, Stiles stared at himself in the mirror. His fingertips tingled if he let himself think about Peter’s stubble, and how damn warm the man’s skin had been.

“What the _hell_ am I doing?”

 

* * *

 

“Yo, daddy-o.” Flopping down to sit on the arm of the sofa, Stiles braced his elbows on his knees. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, then laced his fingers together to keep from fidgeting. “You got a sec?”

His father muted the television without hesitation, turning his full, expectant attention on Stiles from his seat in his recliner.

“This is the part where you tell me you’ve got a thing for Talia Hale’s brother, isn’t it.”

Stiles didn’t actually fall on his face, but that was mostly because he managed to catch his elbow on the coffee table when he flailed. It hurt like a bitch, zinging lightning up his arm.

“You—” His voice cracked, shrill and strangled, as he hoisted himself back up, sliding properly into a seat this time. “How did you— What are you talking about? How do you even— I mean, _what_?”

“C’mon, kid.” The corner of John’s mouth twitched, and Stiles had the urge to crawl under the couch cushions. “You’ve been texting somebody for weeks; the dopey smiles and goo-goo eyes were a pretty big clue something was up.”

“ _Goo-goo eyes_?”

“And the dopiest damned smiles,” his dad agreed, ignoring Stiles’ incredulous, narrow-eyed stare. “To be honest, I was worried you might’ve fallen down the Lydia Martin rabbit hole again—”

“Oh my god, Dad, that was like _ten_ years ago—”

“But then the last time Lydia dropped the kids off, I noticed you duck out to go giggle about something on your phone.”

“I could’ve been _laughing_ in a butch and manly fashion about anything! Somebody could have sent me a stupid joke, or it could have been a video of those miniature goats, or literally a _thousand_ other things.”

“Oh, it could have been, sure.” His father’s expression was unflinchingly dry. “Except I had to endure eight years of you mooning over Lydia. And you remember I’m actually a cop, right, in addition to being your dad? I know when you’ve got a crush, Stiles. It wasn’t that hard to narrow down who.”

“Oh, god.”

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure until you almost brained yourself,” John said, motioning to the coffee table. “Let’s call it ninety, ninety-five. Now, we can skip the soft sell. You going to tell me about this guy? Is he nice?”

“Nice?” That was not an adjective Stiles would have chosen to describe Peter, unless he was talking about the guy’s ass in those obscenely tight jeans, maybe. “He’s sort of… Wait, no. We are _not_ having this kind of talk about Peter Hale. I came down here so you could chew me out for being an idiot, but not actually gruesomely murder me like Lydia would. And it’s not a _crush_ , Jesus.”

“I think I need some context, kid. Why exactly am I supposed to be chewing you out? He’s not—” Pausing for a second, John rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, slowly shaking his head. “God, tell me he’s not married. Stiles, damn it—”

“He’s not,” Stiles said quickly, and after all the poking around he’d done into Peter’s background, he was totally sure. It was good to know that his dad didn’t think he’d outgrown the wildly inappropriate, doomed crush thing, though. Just fantastic. “And I’m pretty positive he’s not straight either, before you ask.”

“Then what’s the problem?” John asked, as if it wasn’t glaringly obvious.

“Uh, he’s going to be Scotty and Lia’s teacher in the fall?” Stiles spread his hands wide, searching for even a hint of understanding in his dad’s face. “He’s going to be teaching my kids for a year, at literally the perfect school, where they managed to get enrolled by some miracle? Dad, I can’t screw that up just because the dude has a smokin’ hot bod and gives me brain boners.”

“Oh, hell.” His dad exhaled, dropping his forehead into his palm. “I’m not— Stiles, you’re my son and I love you, but there are some images I don’t need.”

“I can’t screw this up,” Stiles said again, because if his dad wasn’t going to do the decent thing and talk him out of this, Stiles would have to do it himself. “I mean, there’s no way this could possibly end any way but bad, right? It crosses all sort of weird lines, and what if it somehow gets Talia pissed off, and the kids aren’t allowed to hang out with the Hales again? Can you freaking imagine the drama? There’d be tears, and I’d totally be the bad guy. And, and, _and_ if things got messy or whatever, and Peter decided to treat Scotty and Lia like shit in his class? I’d have to kill him. Like, straight up murder. Nobody needs that.”

“Don’t plot murders when I’m in earshot,” John said wearily, rubbing between his eyebrows. “And that’s a lot of _what ifs_ , Stiles. It didn’t occur to you that this might not actually go to hell? That maybe you could, I don’t know, go out for coffee with this guy, and the world wouldn’t end?”

“Are you even serious right now?” Stiles leaned back against the couch, slumping. “Why— Why are you trying to talk me _into_ this?”

“Because you haven’t been out on a date in about three years.” Before Stiles could say a word, or a couple of words, a couple of justifiably annoyed words about why the hell that even _mattered_ , John was raising one hand in a placating wave. “And if you wait another three years, or ten years, or never wanted to date again, that’d be your call, kid. But this? If you weren’t at least a little interested in giving this a try, you wouldn’t be bouncing off the walls about it now.”

“It doesn’t matter if I’m _interested._ ” He’d meant to sound more forceful, sure and sharp, but there was a bitter sort of resignation colouring his voice that he couldn’t quite shake. He stared down at his own hands, picking at the uneven edges of his chewed nails. “It’d be a stupid risk on a number of levels, and my kids are the ones who’d get screwed over. I know I’m not always dad-of-the-year material, but I’m not that selfish.”

“Hey.” Apparently, his dad had no trouble finding the sharp tone Stiles had tried and failed to hang onto. Stiles glanced up over the top of his glasses; even blurred slightly, it was clear enough that John looked pissed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you be anything close to selfish. You work hard and you provide for those two kids, and it’s not because you’re looking for a pat on the back— it’s what you think they deserve. And more than that, you love spending time with them, and they know it. I don’t know what the hell you think a great dad is supposed to be like, if that’s not it.”

There were a lot of things Stiles could have said to that, but he swallowed it all back down with the ease of long practice. His dad didn’t need to hear about how often Stiles felt like the most selfish shit on the face of the earth. Four years of university, and Stiles was working part time at a bookstore and playing around with some coding skills he’d scraped together and taught himself, because he didn’t bother to get a fucking useful degree. Enough scholarships and bursaries to add up to a full-ride, and he’d still drained the modest college fund his father had managed to set aside, because _holy shit_ babies were not cheap. He was living with his dad, turning the dude into a full-time grandpa, with all the mess, headaches, and free childcare that entailed.

Stiles knew he wasn’t the only person his age in similar situations; even without the twins, there was a good chance he’d be living at home, at least for a few years. There had never been any guarantee he’d get a job in the field he’d studied. He could have chosen a major with better prospects than PoliSci, that was for damn sure, but he’d gone with his gut and his heart.

He’d actually been one of those douchebags who’d gone to college with dreams of _making a difference_ , despite the protests of every cynical bone in his body. Like an idiot, he’d made the fanciful, sentimental choices he’d thought would have made his mom proud.

That was before the kids, though. And once they were in the picture, it was too late to change his major without wasting even more money and time he really couldn’t afford. He’d barely managed to finish his degree as it was, but he’d outright refused to throw away three years of his life without a fight. His senior year had been a blur of late night feedings and online classes, and somehow he’d even thrown a thesis together by the end. Stiles honestly didn’t remember much of it, except bits and pieces. Mostly, he tried to forget the months of agonizing exhaustion and focus on the better parts, like the softness of the twins’ wispy hair when he laid them in their crib, and the first time they laughed.

“Thanks, Dad,” he said, quiet and earnestly grateful. It meant a lot that John thought those words were true— _great dad_ — even if Stiles had a hard time believing them some days. “Hey, listen, never mind. I'm being stupid. I’m going to head upstairs, and we can just forget—”

“Sit your ass down.”

It was automatic, to let his knees go lax and drop back into his seat. Stiles might have never been the most obedient son, but he was usually more the sneaking around, better-forgiveness-than-permission type of insufferable little shit. He’d never really been blatantly disrespectful; he’d always taken the time to at least listen to his dad, even if they both knew he was going to go do his own thing afterward.

“Stiles,” his dad said, still frowning. “I want you to think about this, and answer me honestly. When’s the last time you did something for yourself? Without worrying about what it might mean for the house, or the kids, or me? Just for _you_.”

“Seriously? We’re not really doing this, are we?” When John’s stare didn’t waver, Stiles knew he had to play along, at least for a minute. He’d never escape otherwise. “Okay. Right after Thanksgiving, when I upgraded my graphics card—”

“That counts as work-related. Try again.”

Stiles could have argued that, but John Stilinski was the perfect mix of stubborn bastard and technological novice, so it would have been a waste of breath. Instead, he racked his brain trying to think of something that might appease.

“I, uh…” It was hardly his fault that his dad had sprung this on him now, when they’d just had the twins’ birthday in November, and then Christmas to worry about. Any fuck-around money had been tied up, like it usually was this time of year. He’d only bought the graphics card because he’d gotten an email about some Cyber Monday sales that had been too good to pass up, and the upgrade had admittedly been way past due.

“Oh! I go out for beers with Lydia and Jackson a couple times a month.”

John nodded. “You do, and you talk about the kids. You’re oh for two, kiddo.”

“Son of a bitch.” Stiles scrubbed his hands over his face, momentarily pushing his glasses up into his hair. “I don’t know, Dad. Just… _ugh_. Have I mentioned that this really isn’t the way I expected this conversation to go?”

“I like to keep you on your toes.”

That was enough to startle Stiles into a slightly hysterical laugh, despite how freaking weird and wildly uncomfortable this entire thing had become. “Well, mission accomplished. Congrats.”

“Listen, son,” John said, then took a deep breath before carrying on. He had his _Serious Sheriff_ face on, and Stiles didn’t know where the hell this was going, but it didn’t look fun. “Being a good parent… it means making hard choices, and it means sacrifices, but it doesn’t mean you have to stop living. That’s not healthy for you, or for the kids.”

Stiles opened his mouth, then shut it again when his dad held up a hand.

“Hang on, Stiles, just… just let me say this. I know I’m not the best example of practicing what I preach when it comes to this stuff. I worked too much when you were a kid. I dug myself into a hole, and I wasn’t always the man I should have been.”

Stiles was pretty sure that getting hit by a bus would have been less of a shock at this point. His dad never talked about this— about the first couple of years after Stiles’ mom had died, and how everything had changed. When Stiles started getting hugs and frequent help with his homework from smiling deputies who weren't his dad, and family dinners had morphed into eating take-out together at the station.

The closest they’d ever come to discussing any of it was when Stiles was sixteen, and his mom had been gone for ten years. He skipped lacrosse practice on the anniversary of the day she’d disappeared, and came home to find his dad slumped at the kitchen table, nursing a bottle of Jack with a lost look in his bloodshot eyes that Stiles hadn’t seen in a long time.

The first thing Stiles did was put the bottle away, purposefully ignoring how empty it was, and ended up sitting with his dad for hours. Mostly, they didn’t speak. When they did, they talked about Claudia, and barely acknowledged the hard times afterward.

That was honestly the most Stiles ever really expected to get out of his dad on the topic, and he’d decided a long time ago that was okay.

Apparently, they were talking about it now, though, and it was inadvertently Peter’s fault. Stiles wasn’t sure whether he wanted to punch to dude, or buy him a fruit basket.

“That’s how I know how much you’ll lose,” his dad said. John’s face had gone soft, instead of screwed up and stony, and Stiles couldn’t have interrupted if his life depended on it. “How much you'll regret, if you don't let yourself live, and it’s not only for your sake. Your kids will notice— they’re already smart as whips, like you were at that age— and they’ll feel guilty. And damn it if knowing you made them feel that way isn’t one of the worst things in the world.”

“Dad…” Stiles swallowed, thick and dry, and allowed himself a few more seconds to observe his dad in this rare moment of rawness. It made John look older, exaggerating the lines around his eyes, but there was also a strange sense of a burden shifting, lessening. Both the protection and the weight of his usual armour falling away, even temporarily.

Stiles’ chest hurt, tightening like a knot behind his ribs. It ached enough that he gave into the pointless urge to rub a palm over his sternum, knowing it wouldn’t help. The silence was heavy, and he was shocked that he honestly didn’t have any urge to fill it.

Then, after the almost haunted stillness of the moment eased off like slowly clearing mist, and it was clear that John wasn’t about to volunteer more earth-shattering sentiments, Stiles took pity on them both and dredged up a ghost of a smile. “I, uh, didn’t realize you were that serious about getting me a date. You got money riding on this, or what?”

“There’s a betting pool at the station,” John said without missing a beat, and neither of them mentioned how gruff the other sounded. “And I might have a side wager going with Mel, so take pity on your old man and call the guy.”

 

* * *

 

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Hey u busy Friday_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Shaping young minds to do my nefarious bidding. The usual._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _K but after school?  
>  _
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I was planning on suffering through a couple episodes of that superhero nonsense so you’ll stop bitching at me about it._
> 
> _FYI, if it's even half as terrible as I'm expecting, I'm going to require compensation._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Omg don’t front u snobby motherfuker. I already know ur like a dormant nerd_
> 
> _I swear ur gonna luv it_
> 
> _For the gratuitous violence if nothin else u psycho_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Name calling, Stiles? That's not very nice._
> 
> _I’m not a ‘dormant’ anything. My tastes have refined._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _What a fancy way of saying u got lame_
> 
> _Ur denial is sad and u make me sad_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Why do you want to know if I'm busy Friday?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Well if u were just skulking around ur evil lair, I was gonna ask if u wanted to grab a beer. But now I’d rather lure u out of nerd hibernation with a bitter netflix binge._
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I was going to text you during, every time that crap made me want to stab myself in the eye, but I suppose I could wait and stab you in person afterward. Ask me out for coffee this weekend._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I still expect u to txt me ur apology for all the whining and threats on my person when it turns out u luv it_
> 
> _I’ll buy u some apology accepted coffee on Saturday_
> 
> _And maybe a SIAR cookie if ur good_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I already regret asking, but what the hell is a SIAR cookie?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _SIAR = stiles is always right_
> 
> _And a cookie is a delicious baked treat like a puck of pure joy. Dude were u raised by wolves???_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Charming. That joke is just as hilarious now as the first fifty times._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I am not unaware of ur sarcasm but dude it really is_
> 
> _So Saturday??_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _What about Saturday? You’re the one asking me, so ask._
> 
> _Use your words, sweetheart. And stop calling me dude._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Ur such an asshole_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Not the words I’m looking for._
> 
> _More name calling too. Does someone need a time out?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Jfc_
> 
> _Hey Peter, u wanna grab coffee Saturday?? I’m buying_
> 
> _And ur still an asshole_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _That sound lovely, Stiles. I’d be delighted._
> 
> _And you like it._


	12. The North-West Alpha Conclave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor drug use in this chapter, fyi. 
> 
> I’ll let you folks know right now, we’re not getting to the actual coffee date until Chapter 14. But between now and then, you get some Peter POV today, and some Lydia & Jackson next time.

Peter escaped the old homestead more than half an hour after dropping Derek off back home. It could have been a shorter visit— the boy could’ve gotten inside just fine on his own, and Peter wouldn’t have even had to get out of the car— but he had a certain morbid curiosity whether the pups had managed to drive Brendan to a complete breakdown yet. The man was a competent father, not bumbling or lazy, and certainly _nice_ enough, but Hales were assholes as a rule. That applied to the kids as much as the adults.

Brendan may have taken Talia’s name and joined the Pack, but he’d never quite adopted the attitude. And a firm hand had never been his forte.

So Peter followed Derek into the house they’d both been raised in, the house Peter had quite literally been born in, and was almost immediately assaulted by a small child landing hard on his back and squealing directly in his ear. Cora had, apparently, been waiting on the second floor railing for just this opportunity.

She was a wriggly little bundle of octopus limbs, still pudgy with baby fat, wrapped around his neck and jabbing her knees into his ribs. Peter reached behind and nabbed her by the scruff, hauling her over his shoulder, then expertly shifted his grip to her waist and and dangled her upside down.

“Hello, you little gremlin.”

“Hi, Uncle Peter!” Cora’s hair was loose, hanging down in dark, tangled waves, and she had something red smeared on her face. There wasn’t a whiff of blood, but if she’d gotten any of whatever it was on his coat, that could change.

Derek didn’t glance up from where he’d had his nose buried in one of his new books; he hadn’t stopped reading since they’d left the parking lot, and as a long-suffering middle child, he was entirely accustomed to his little sister’s antics. He did stop at the foot of the stairs long enough to mumble another _thanks Uncle Peter_ , but then he was disappearing up to his room.

“I see the house is still standing,” Peter mused to no one in particular. His ears were still ringing from Cora’s high-pitched shriek, but there was enough clanking going on in the kitchen to overcome the tinnitus.

Lifting Cora a bit higher, Peter studied her brightly beaming face; the mess was streaked under her eyes, and across her chin and lips. When he recognized the colour as one of Talia’s favourite lipsticks, probably lying somewhere crushed into its tube, he couldn’t contain his own answering grin.

“Don’t you look fancy, sweetheart.”

“I’m in _disguise_ ,” Cora said emphatically. “You didn’t see me, and I got you.”

“You got me.” Flipping the girl over, right-side-up, Peter hoisted her onto his hip and headed for the kitchen. “Keep your camouflage to yourself, pup.  That shade really doesn't work with my skintone.  Of course, it doesn't work with your mother's either, but that's never stopped her.”

Ignoring him completely, Cora mashed her face against the side of his throat, probably getting a disgusting amount of lipstick all over him. Delightful. “Uncle Peter, you smell. I wanna visit Stiles too, and Lia and Scott.”

In the kitchen, Brendan was digging through the pull-out freezer, muttering to himself. There was a glaring lack of dinner being prepared.

Laura, sitting at the counter with a scribbler and a workbook laid out in front of her, hopped off her stool and darted over for a hug when Peter entered the room.

“Hi, Uncle Peter.”

“You haven’t staged a coup yet, Laura,” he said in lieu of greeting, squeezing one arm around the girl’s shoulders. “I have to say, I’m disappointed. I expected more excitement. Although your dad’s having an argument with a bag of frozen peas, so I suppose it’s not a complete loss. Behaving yourself?”

Laura muffled giggles against his jacket before biting her lip and looking up. “‘Course I am. I’m helping dad— hey, what’s on your neck? Is that— Cora!”

“Can’t see me,” Cora said, squishing tightly into Peter’s side. “I’m in disguise!”

Laura didn’t seem half as amused as Peter felt; she unlatched herself from the hug, taking a step back with a thunderous expression on her face. Her eyes and the softer line of her jaw favoured Brendan, but at that moment, she was the spitting image of Talia in a temper. “Dad! Cora got into Mom’s makeup!”

“What?” Finally, that seemed to be enough to tear Brendan’s attention away from the freezer. He turned, a bit wild in the eyes; his white shirt had several grimy little handprints dirtying the hem, and his dark, loosely curled hair was a trainwreck, likely from dragging his fingers through it. “Oh god, Peter, hi. Everything go okay with Derek? You brought him home?”

“He’s upstairs, with his new books.” Making a point to look Brendan up and down as judgmentally as possible, Peter tutted. “Having a rough day?”

“I, uh, got caught up with work— this project is killer. Lost track of time, but usually Talia’s around to drag me out of the office for dinner if I get too lost.” Brendan actually looked sheepish, running one hand back through his hair again and scrubbing it over his nape. “I didn’t get a chance before you took off to thank you for bringing the girls home from school. You’re really saving my butt this week, brother, you know that?”

Peter waved him off, pretending the repetitious thanks was unnecessary. In reality, Peter had every intention of calling this entire week in for several favours later on; a situation would eventually arise when having Talia’s husband’s ear would be exactly what he needed.

“What the— _Cora_ ,” Brendan said, noticing the messy state of his youngest. “Oh Cricket, give your dad a break, come on.”

The next words out of Peter’s mouth were a direct testament to Stiles’ effect on his mood.

“I’ll get her cleaned up,” he said, and Cora growled sulkily. “Bren, it’s after five. Either make something fast, or order something in, before the pups turn on each other and someone gets eaten. My money’s on Derek as the entrée.”

“Could we get pizza?” Laura asked, while at nearly the exact same time, Cora shouted: “Pancakes!”

“There you are,” Peter said, already heading off towards the downstairs bathroom to scrub waxy residue from both his niece and his neck. “Something takeout, and something quick. Best of luck.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Peter walked in the door of his apartment, any traces of Stiles’ scent lingering on his throat were long gone, along with every smear of lipstick. It was annoying— walking around with Stiles on his skin felt like a minor victory, and he’d hoped to wallow a bit, honestly— but on the bright side, it gave him more impetus to drop in on the other man again, sooner rather than later.

There weren’t any strident yowls to greet him, but the sounds of scuffling coming from somewhere down the hall assured him he wasn’t alone. Hobbes rarely made successful escapes, but when he did, Peter was always forced to drag his ass all the way down to Mrs. Kaplan’s apartment on the third floor. The woman was human, eighty-nine years old, and more than willing to lure Peter’s idiot cat into her wizened clutches with bribes of tuna and evaporated milk.

Evaporated milk gave Hobbes absolutely horrendous gas, not that Mrs. Kaplan gave a shit about that; her sinuses were probably mummified. She always shot Peter the evilest looks whenever he came down to retrieve the hateful little traitor, too, and didn’t even have the courtesy to die of a heart attack when he bared his fangs at her in return.

Dropping his wallet and keys in the bowl by the door, then stripping off his shoes and coat, Peter meandered across the hardwood floors, following the sounds down to the spare bedroom.

Hobbes was poised over his plastic turbo track like a big grey lump, swatting seven shades of shit out of the little pink ball as it whipped around the circular lane. It was probably rolling just short of the speed of sound and, apparently, it was entertaining enough that the bastard didn’t even lift his head at Peter’s entrance.

“Hobbes.” Nothing. Not the slightest flick of his tail. “Good to see you too. I’m really feeling the love.”

It took all of ten minutes to assemble his dinner— leftover Thai takeout, heaped on a plate and microwaved until it steamed. Peter was feeling lazy, and the basil beef had been particularly good when he’d ordered it the night before. Hobbes finally padded out into the kitchen in time to beg a few slivers of meat, hopping up on the barstool next to where Peter was eating and dicking around on his iPad.

“Oh, so now you’re interested in saying hello.” The cat blinked at him with bright golden eyes, cocking his head and letting out a long, plaintive meow. “Fine, but if you puke in my shoes again, you’re losing a limb. Test me.”

Peter used his claws to shred a strip of beef into smaller pieces, piling them in front of the waiting cat. Hobbes sniffed the offering, peered up at Peter with entirely unwarranted suspicion, then oh so daintily plucked a tiny piece of meat between his teeth. Peter left him to it, wiping his fingers on a napkin and picking up his tablet.

 

* * *

 

He’d just finished scooping the litter box, with Hobbes playing his usual role of self-satisfied audience, when his cell phone started to ring. Ignoring the insistent chiming, Peter washed and dried his hands before deigning to fish the phone out of the pocket of his jeans.

It’d already gone to voicemail, but the sight of the missed call alert made him groan. Why in the hell was Talia calling him from Oregon? On a Wednesday night?

He considered turning his phone off and pretending he hadn’t heard anything, then dismissed the idea almost instantly. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his night cut off from every other person he might actually want to talk to, just because his sister had decided to bother him. Trying to wait it out and ignore her calls would get annoying fast.

Blocking her number temporarily was another option, but there was a slim chance that things at the North-West Alpha conclave had turned into a complete shitstorm, and Talia needed the calvary. Though if she was calling _him_ for help, the situation had to already be one wrong move away from a literal massacre.

“Damn it.” The voicemail, when he listened to it, was nothing but a moment of silence before she hung up. Of course, it would have been too much effort to take thirty seconds and actually leave a message.

His day had been going so well.

Tapping his thumb against the screen, Peter ambled over to his couch as the call connected. His ass had barely touched the cushion before Talia’s voice was in his ear.

“Peter.” She didn’t sound near-death, or even just out of breath. Peter’s concerns eased down a few notches, even as his annoyance rose to balance it. “Is this a bad time?”

“Would it matter if it was?”

Talia chuckled at him, not rising to the bait, and Peter tried not to be too disappointed. Winding her up and setting her loose among a throng of other Alphas would have been fun, but getting out of this conversation as quickly as possible was his main goal. Talia never called unless she wanted something.

“I was chatting with Bren and the pups earlier,” Talia said, and there was a definite edge of teasing in her tone that made Peter bristle, immediately wary. “Thank you for taking Derek to get his books; he’s still buzzing about it. It sounds like you two had a lot of fun.”

Peter hummed noncommittally, giving his sister precisely no traction wherever she was trying to drag him, but Talia carried on as if he’d agreed.

“Or, you three,” she said, absolutely gagging with amused innuendo. “How was Stiles, by the way?”

“Stiles?” Peter uncurled his hand from the arm of the couch before he punctured the upholstery. “He seemed fine.”

“Oh, I bet he’s _fine_.” Talia was flat out laughing now, and the sound was bubbly enough that Peter glanced at his watch. It was about quarter past nine— maybe a bit early, but not outside the realm of possibility.

“Tally,” he said, drawing out the childhood nickname in a long, questioning drawl. “Did you drunk dial me?” When an honest to god giggle was his answer, Peter rolled his eyes, relaxing back into a sprawl. “Good to know you’re taking this conclave seriously.”

“There was wine with dinner.” Wine infused with wolfsbane tincture, by the sound of it. At least Talia was an eloquent drunk, most of the time. “And Deuc insisted on ordering it, so it was really, unfairly good wine. Then when we got back to the farm, Matilda Friesen brought out these brownies—”

“Oh, this is too good.” Matilda Friesen was a Beta from one of the Packs out of British Columbia— a bitten wolf well into her fifties, with a lovely smile and an avid interest in _alternative baking_. Peter had only met her twice, but the memories lingered. “I’ve got to get Beth in on a conference call. You’re high off your ass.”

“Are you interested in Stiles?” And with those five words, any possibility of actually calling Beth vanished like smoke in the wind; he’d tell her the story later, with a few key revisions. Inviting both of his older sisters to nose around his personal life was not his idea of a good time.

“Christ, how many brownies have you had?” Deflection usually didn’t work with Talia; she was far too persistent, and subtly shrewd enough to keep Peter on his toes since they were kids.

The methods and criteria for the inheritance of Alpha powers were different now than they had been thirty years ago. Before the Anagnorisis, Alphas had been wolves with the strength to take and hold their power, and inheritance had usually been a bloody business in all but the stablest Packs. Now, Alphas needed to be politicians, not just with other wolves, but humans too. They needed to present a palatable vision of werewolves to the general public, and since all werewolves were government registered, Alphas couldn’t simply meet messy ends at the claws of stronger successors. The general idea was to seem less like murderous beasts to the squishy humans, and the bodies that piled up in traditional power struggles created all sorts of difficult questions now that they were under scrutiny.

His sister hadn’t been chosen to succeed their mother as Hale Alpha on a whim. She might be somewhat delusional, and too willing to bend when she should push back, but she wasn’t stupid. And she was as tenacious as an actual shewolf with a fresh kill when it came to ferreting out information that caught her interest.

Peter had hoped that the mix of wine and hash might have given him a better shot at distracting her from her current line of questioning, but apparently he’d used up all his luck earlier in the day, when Stiles had stood so close and curled a hand against his neck.

“Not enough to let you get away with changing the subject,” Talia said, straining for a sober, serious tone. The hiccup ruined it, but the intent was clear enough. “Peter, listen. I know, I _know_ you’re going to say it’s none of my business, but I want you to be at least a little careful with whatever’s going on. Stiles is a very nice young man.”

Stiles was a sarcastic shit, with a protective streak that bordered on homicidal when it came to people and causes he cared about. He was brash, caustic, and unapologetic about his opinions and his biting humour. But he was also an opportunistic little bastard, with genuine passion for _shifter rights_ and familial devotion worthy of any wolf, so of course he’d thoroughly charmed Talia.

“You’re at least partly right,” Peter said. “It’s none of your business. But if it was? I’m fairly certain Stiles wouldn’t need your protection, or appreciate the attempt. You’re not his Alpha.”

“No, but I’m yours.” Any hint of dominance Talia might have tried to exert was lost over the phone and through the haze of moderate intoxication. Peter didn’t feel even slightly compelled to submit. “You’ve never even sniffed around any of the Fáelán parents before, and I know you’ve had offers, so either you’re bored, or you’re actually serious about this.”

“This may be shocking, I know, but even if you insist on talking about this, it’s still none of your business.”

Talia snarled with uninhibited irritation, sounding far more feral than usual, but it wasn’t nearly as satisfying to finally get a rise out of her as it could have been. At this point, Peter wasn’t sure which part of this conversation was more galling: that his sister was trying to dictate his relationships now, or that he’d apparently been so transparent about Stiles without realizing it. Talia shouldn’t have had more than passing suspicions, if that— they’d only been texting for a few weeks, even if the messages pinged back and forth fairly often, with increasing regularity and familiarity. They’d interacted in person a grand total of four times, for fucksake.

If Peter couldn’t keep something as simple as a new, undefined relationship a secret, he was seriously losing his touch. That was a profoundly disturbing thought.

He had spent a lot of time imagining what might happen the day his sister realised his plans, what he was trying to achieve, and what he’d been hiding for years. Optimally, that day wouldn’t come until after the ember Peter could feel smouldering in his core fully ignited, and the power locked away within his most fundamental genes finally burst free. Not until he was an Alpha in his own right, past the point when Talia or anyone else could snatch it away from him. At least, not without tearing his throat out, and he wouldn’t go down easy if it came to that.

The bonds between him and his students were more than any ordinary Beta should have been able to foster. To any outside observer, he should have looked like nothing more than the faux “Alpha” figurehead many elementary teachers became to their werewolf students— younger wolves tended to form their first conscious bonds when they started school, branching out from their immediate families. It was perfectly normal, but it was all playacting, without any real power in those immature bonds unless the teacher was actually an Alpha. Just instinct and practice, preparing them for eventual integration into their own Packs as full members, rather than simply pups.

Peter had been teaching for nearly a decade, and the last four years at Fáelán. He’d taught nearly two hundred students in that time, mostly wolves, but of course he didn’t have a perfect track record. Some pups moved on from his class, and the bond faded to nothing. Some never bonded to him at all, for whatever reason. It'd almost never worked in the beginning, but with each new class his rate of retention improved, and his Pack grew.

Was he getting better at his job, or was his Alpha power manifesting more strongly? Both? He didn’t know, but he happily reaped the benefits.

A shivery web of gossamer-thin Pack bonds linked him to dozens of kids all across Beacon County, and it wasn’t some delusion brought on by desperation. He was thirty-three, and noticeably stronger and faster than he’d been in his early twenties, with no sign of slowing down. His control had always been excellent, but now it was iron-clad, even on full moons. He’d never felt more settled in his own skin.

He checked his eyes every morning, wiping steam off the bathroom mirror to search for the first streaks of red bleeding into electric blue. So far there’d been nothing, but everything Peter had ever read about True Alphas said the same thing: the powers would come gradually, in their own time, if the strength of will was there. The eyes, and any Alpha form the shift might take on, would probably be some of the very last changes, after the rest of the powers had fully developed.

Patience was one of his virtues.

If the histories and legends were true, any True Alpha potential in him had been locked away the day the Beta gold had chilled out of his eyes. He was waging a war of attrition against the mistakes of his past, without any examples to compare— he hadn’t found a single rumour of anyone attempting anything like this before, and he’d looked hard. Building an enormous Pack, held together by subtle, unconventional bonds... the fact that it seemed to be working at all was nothing short of incredible.

If Talia found out what he was doing, Peter couldn’t trust that she’d leave him alone, even if his plans were completely harmless. The pups in his Pack actually benefited from their bonds— their physical and cognitive development accelerated, their social skills usually improved, and he had the opportunity to teach them all how to be wolves, before the world tried to force them into muzzles. Since he’d been hired at Fáelán, he’d discovered that those gains weren’t limited to the wolf pups; most of it applied to the human kids, too. They were all _Pack_ , drawing strength from each other.

He was going to feed the Alpha power simmering under his skin until it caught fire, and show these miserable, beaten dogs what a wolf was meant to be. He was going to fix what fear had broken, and build a fully-fledged Pack of fresh blood and proud wolves, unfettered by the atrophy and toxic laws that had been dragging them down since the Anagnorisis. He was going to offer the Bite to the willing, to the worthy, and laugh in the face of whatever fed in a cheap suit or spineless mutt they sent to stop him.

He was going to be the Alpha that at least tried to fight against this government ordered, step-by-step _extinction_ of werewolves, and he didn’t waste time considering the steps he’d be willing to take if Talia tried to stop him.

It didn’t need to come to that, if he was smart about it. He’d kept his suspicions about his potential as a True Alpha secret for over fifteen years; he could easily do this. He just needed to be more careful.

“I don’t know why you’re always so difficult,” Talia growled, yanking him out of the increasingly dangerous twists his thoughts were taking. “So… _ugh_. Damn it, Stiles and his pups deserve a Pack.”

“What?” Peter didn’t try to hold back the laugh that barked out of him, dry and just a bit mean. “Is that what this is all about? You want Stiles and his kids in—” _Your_. “—our Pack?”

“I’m not... I’m not sure. I’m considering it.”

“Sober up and reconsider.” Reaching over the arm of the couch, Peter wiggled his fingers to call Hobbes over, giving the cat's sleek grey back a few slow strokes when he came into range. “Then consider this your brotherly advice for the week: drop the Pack bullshit with the Stilinskis. I’ve a feeling there’ll be messy fallout if you don’t.”

Sitting back and watching Talia sabotage her own budding relationship with Stiles would have been petty. Peter wasn’t usually above petty, but in this case it wasn’t necessary— he could manage his own affairs without getting _too_ possessive. It didn’t hurt for Stiles to maintain a good rapport with the Hales, as long as he had a definite preference for Peter.

Stiles didn’t want to join _any_ Pack, and Peter could hardly blame him. After twenty-five years of losing their traditions to assimilation, and stagnating after the prohibition against offering the Bite, there wasn’t a Pack left in California with any real teeth. Not yet.

“He’s said no before,” Talia said, trailing into a vaguely petulant whine. In Peter’s experience, it sounded like they were approaching the cranky, maudlin portion of the evening’s debauchery. “To other Alphas, not me. I haven’t asked, but I thought about it. After he told me about his mother, and I saw… There’s a wolf in him. He’s so human, but I saw it, Peter, in his eyes, and I started thinking about how to ask. I wasn’t going to just blindside him.”

“Good.” Stiles had told Talia about his mother? That was… unexpected. “If you’re smart, you won’t ask him at all.”

Peter only knew as much as he did about Claudia Stilinski because he’d done his research. Another murdered shifter might not have made huge headlines at the time, but she had been well-liked in Beacon Hills— a social worker, young mother, and the wife of a sheriff’s deputy— and her death had been brutal. Stiles had never brought the topic up, though, and Peter had never asked.

There was a lull in the conversation, and a shuffling sound from Talia’s end of things. Peter waited, letting Hobbes jump up to curl in his lap and rumble like an engine.

“You’re literally a buzz kill,” Talia said eventually, sullenly. He could imagine her pout, and it wasn’t exactly the picture of _dignified Alpha_. “I don’t even know why I called in the first place. I miss Bren. I’m going to sleep.”

“That would probably be for the best.”

“Peter?” He made a bland, disinterested noise, entirely done with humouring this conversation, but Talia soldiered on. “This… whatever you’re doing with Stiles. Just, please. I’d consider it a favour if you could be slightly less than a total asshole about it.”

“Goodnight, Talia.” He hung up in her ear, tossing his phone onto the couch and taking a few deep breaths. “Why can’t she get high and confess some terrible secret, or just babble like a normal person?”

Hobbes kept purring, rolling partially on his back so Peter could scratch under his chin. When those scratches weren’t immediately forthcoming, he started to bat at whatever part of Peter he could reach, first with a soft paw, then with claws.

“Quit that, you shit.”

From halfway across the couch, his phone beeped with an incoming text. If it was Talia, he was seriously going to consider skipping all the hard work and becoming an Alpha the old fashioned way instead.

Luckily for everyone, it wasn’t his sister. 

> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Hey u busy Friday_

Peter grinned at the message, shaking off the worst of his bad mood with four simple words. Or, as close as Stiles got to words when he typed. It was still more legible than most of the worksheets Peter saw every day; he had a lot of experience deciphering meaning from childish nonsense. Stiles’ obnoxious texting was a minor annoyance that only occasionally made him want to break the man’s thumbs.

Hobbes was supremely insulted that his impromptu petting session had been abandoned. He voiced the depths of his displeasure with one sharp, indignant meow, before hopping down and strutting away with his tail in the air.

“Aren’t cats supposed to be aloof,” Peter called after him, typing out a reply without looking up. “Better get used to it, Hobbes. I’ve found someone cuter, and I’m trading up, so why don’t you waddle off and see if that harpy downstairs still wants to kill you with kindness.”

If Peter woke up to a shredded laundry hamper the next morning, he knew it would be his own fault, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. The pleasure of goading Stiles into asking him out on a date was certainly worth a few ruined shirts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I’m late on the next update, nobody panic. I’m getting four wisdom teeth extracted on June 5th, so that might screw my writing/posting schedule up for a little bit. Wish me luck.
> 
> Plus, keep an eye out for my contribution to [Peter Week](http://bxdcubes.tumblr.com/post/118012854334/for-all-of-us-peter-hale-enthusiast-im-happy-to), if you’re into some Alpha!Peter and Amoral!Stiles murder boyfriend Steter. I’ll be posting that story in a couple of days.


	13. Lucky Red Underwear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am currently on pain meds, so let's see how this posts :D

One of the weirdest things about this entire disaster-in-the-making was the fact that Stiles hadn’t said one word about it to Lydia. That in itself was an enormous clue that he was almost definitely making a massive mistake.

If Stiles could go back in time and meet his Seventh Grade self, he’d tell the scrawny little jerkoff that things were going to get better. Well, probably not in those words, because they sounded incredibly lame and he wasn’t an actual walking cliché, but he’d give himself a decent enough pep-talk.

Probably the thing that would blow past-Stiles’ mind the most— even more than the knowledge that he’d be a dad before he was twenty-two, and by extension, had actually successfully popped his cherry at some point— would be the fact that Lydia Martin turned out to be his closest friend and soul sister. Definitely still the chief goddess of his life’s pantheon, but not his girlfriend, not his badass wife, not a blissful hookup, and also not the terrifyingly gorgeous and genius girl who haunted Stiles’ dreams but didn’t know his name.

Stiles gave Jackson precisely zero credit for this awesome state of affairs, even if it had kind of been Wolfy McDouchenozzle who’d put Stiles on Lydia’s radar in the first place. It wasn’t as if Jackson had planned it that way, though, so it totally didn’t count. Stiles didn’t owe him shit.

Jackson had swaggered into Beacon Hills High School on the first day of their freshman year, straight out of some private shifter school in Sacramento, and Stiles hadn’t really paid attention. Until a couple of weeks later, when a disturbing pattern became too obvious for Stiles to ignore.

There hadn’t always been as many shifter families in Beacon Hills as there were now. After the big reveal, and the uproar that had followed, there was a sort of widespread, piecemeal migration all over the country. A lot of families, sometimes even entire Packs, either moved more rural and isolated, or they went in another direction and integrated themselves into the relative anonymity of bigger cities, and Beacon Hills hadn’t been any different.

The Hale family hadn’t budged, staying stubbornly in the town they’d help build, and over the past decade or so there had definitely been a resurgence in the local shifter population. That wasn’t surprising, considering Talia’s reputation as a shifter advocate and influential Alpha. There might even be more shifters in town now than there were before the Anagnorisis, but that wouldn’t be an easy thing to prove.

The point was, when Stiles had started high school, there had been a grand total of seven shifter kids in the entire freshman class, and Jackson Whittemore had been the biggest dickhead of the bunch. He’d also been the only freshman shifter who hadn’t grown up in Beacon Hills, and it showed; the way he held himself apart from the others probably wasn’t obvious to most humans, but Stiles knew how casually physical shifters were, and how poorly they fared on their own. Jackson was on the fringes, proud and snappish, and the local shifter kids weren’t making any great pains to absorb him into any of their little quasi-Pack formations.

That knowledge was the reason why the first time Jackson had shoved him hard into a row of lockers, Stiles didn’t cringe away or go running to the principal’s office screaming about feral shifters, like most human students would’ve done. Instead, he whipped around and snarled right in the dude’s face, warning but not challenging, and reminded him that _humans were breakable, dumbass_.

Jackson had snarled back, eyes flashing gold, and by a miraculous mix of luck and tenacity, the whole thing hadn’t culminated with Stiles’ intestines smeared over the linoleum. Somehow, he’d ended up making space for Jackson at a lunch table, introducing him to the other freshman dorks he hung out with as _this puppy who followed me home, he’s not house-trained yet, but please Danny can I keep him?_

When it turned out that there were some curriculum differences between what their teachers expected, and what had been taught at Jackson’s fancy shifter school, Stiles had made a point of being the most obnoxious but effective tutor on the face of the earth. Jackson pretty much stopped eating lunch alone, and surgically implanted himself in Danny’s orbit within a few days, which wasn’t a shock. Everybody liked Danny.

Jackson never stopped being an arrogant dick, but he was also the dude who almost murdered Stiles with lacrosse drills and early morning runs the summer before their sophomore year, despite the fact that the team was human-only. Stiles always proofread Jackson’s history papers, and occasionally thrashed him at COD; once they got their driver’s licenses, Jackson picked Stiles up for school in his penis-extension of a Porsche whenever Roscoe was having a tantrum.

They’d both lost parents to anti-shifter violence, which wasn’t a pleasant sort of solidarity to have with somebody, but it still meant something. It didn’t mean they refrained from verbally eviscerating each other on the daily, since _nice_ wasn’t really their thing, but it worked for them.

Or, it had worked, until the day Lydia Martin strutted up to their lunch table— which had become part of the cluster of lacrosse tables after Danny had made goalie despite only being a sophomore, and Stiles had pulled out every trick Jackson had beaten into him and just barely eked onto first line. Lydia hadn’t wasted any time pointedly informing Jackson that he had a week to ask her the Winter Formal. When she’d flounced away in a cloud of vanilla perfume and shiny, strawberry blonde curls, Stiles remembered feeling like she’d carved his heart out.

That was how their entire lunch table found out that Jackson and Lydia had already been out on a handful of dates, and no one had seemed at all surprised about that revelation except Stiles. The whole thing hurt like fire, burning Stiles’ guts with humiliation, and on top of that, it had seemed so cruel in a way that Jackson rarely was, even when he cranked the asshole-ittude up to eleven.

So Stiles started skipping lunch, because he wasn’t keen to test whose side their little crew would take if he decided to get in Jackson’s face about it, and it honestly felt too embarrassing anyway. He found various hiding spots to lick his wounds instead, mowing through shitty snack food to keep himself from starving, and he flat-out ignored Jackson for three weeks straight. After that, it was a few more weeks of nothing but barbed comments and deleting Jackson’s texts without reading them.

Looking back on it now, with what Stiles hoped was a bit more maturity, his reaction was fairly ridiculous. At that point, Lydia had said maybe five words to him since the third grade; theirs was not destined to be one of history’s great romances, or even a heart-rending romantic tragedy.

Thank god for Danny Mahealani, was basically the moral of the story. Danny was the one who convinced Stiles to pull his head out of his ass— _man, you were never going to make a move, and you were honestly being kind of a creep; they’re cute together, and Jackson is your friend, so smarten the hell up_.

Stiles never actually apologized to Jackson, but he had eventually texted him, then showed up at the dude’s house with a case of Dr Pepper and two extra large meat lovers pizzas. And of fucking course Jackson would have rather yanked his own claws out than apologize, even if he knew he’d made sort of a dick move by not mentioning anything to Stiles before. It was like an asshole armistice, and there was pizza, so win-win.

Jackson also didn’t offer to _step aside_ or anything stupid like that, which was definitely for the best. The idea was sleazy on its own, but if Lydia had ever caught wind that she’d been bargained over, there wouldn’t have been a single testicle left uncrushed in the entire county.

In a surprising move, Jackson did offer to let Stiles punch him— one time only, bare-handed, _no fucking rings Stilinski_ — without consequence. Stiles had thrown a piece of pepperoni at him, leaving a greasy orange stain on his pristine Lacoste polo, and told him to fuck off. And that had basically been that.

So yeah, that was how Lydia Martin had finally entered the realm of Stiles’ existence in a meaningful, not-imaginary way: by being the freaking love of Jackson’s life. Gross.

The really important part was that Stiles and Lydia had turned out to be complementary semi-evil geniuses and soul siblings once they truly got to know each other, and after Stiles shook out the last vestiges of his crush-blindness. Jackson didn’t have a single goddamn thing to do with _that_ , thank you.

It had been a very long time since Stiles had wanted to keep anything secret from Lydia Martin; he was pretty sure than the urge to do so now was a bad sign.

Not bad enough to actually stop whatever was going on with Peter, but definitely not good.

 

* * *

 

“Why are you dressed up?”

Stiles didn’t panic; he’d prepared for this. Taking a breath, he made sure his expression was the picture of innocence before turning around to face Lydia’s inspection.

“I’m way behind on laundry,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie. He ran his hand over the front of his shirt, carelessly flicking buttons, as if he hadn’t actually pulled out the ironing board and neatened it up before leaving the house. “It was this or an ugly Christmas sweater, and that’d be just a little too tacky. I mean, it’s January.”

The instinct to ask whether or not he looked good was incredibly hard to quell; Lydia was his regular go-to whenever he needed to appear slightly more put together than his usual trainwreck. It had been a while since _whenever_ had meant a date instead of a Skype meeting with clients, but Stiles wasn’t one hundred percent sure this was a date anyway. He would be obligated by the bonds of their deep and abiding friendship to tell Lydia if he had a date, so ambiguity was definitely to his benefit.

It _might_ be a date. Stiles was already vibrating out of his skin like it was, and he’d tossed five different shirts and three pairs of pants across his bed before settling on a slim, striped button-up and some dark green skinnies that made his ass look fantastic. He’d grabbed a coat instead of a hoodie on his way out the door, and okay, maybe he was wearing lucky underwear, but no one would ever know that last part. Lengthy sexual dry spells and illegally handsome shifters aside, he wasn’t that easy.

But two single dudes could go out for coffee without it being a date. Two single dudes, who both liked dudes, could go out for coffee without it being a date; if that wasn’t true, his relationship with Danny would be on a whole different level. Two single dudes, who both liked dudes, and who regularly sent each other suggestive texts and hilarious snapchats, and quite possibly had started sending quick little _good morning_ messages on the daily too, and had maybe felt up each other’s necks in a parking lot…

 _Fuck_ , he needed to stop thinking about this, at least until he got the hell out of the Martin-Whittemores’ foyer, and away from Lydia’s suspicious attention.

“So, yeah, like I said, Scotty’s got sniffles,” Stiles started to say, and edged subtly towards the front door, trying not to trip on the abandoned heap of his own kids’ sneakers. He could almost taste freedom. “Pretty sure it’s just allergies, to be honest, and it hasn’t slowed him down. Just, don’t be surprised if he uses his puffer. Specifically, tell your big marshmallow husband not to worry.”

There was an audible roar from a few rooms over, but Jackson didn’t dare shout any obscenities with three little kids dashing around the house.

“You did your hair,” Lydia said, apropos of absolutely nothing at all. It sounded like an accusation, and Stiles cringed before he could stop himself. He was suddenly hyper aware of every smear of pomade keeping his hair in something approaching a style, instead of the haphazard finger-combing he managed most mornings.

“What do you— I _washed_ my hair, but that’s—”

“Stiles.” Excuses died in his throat, trailing off to a brief, wordless warble, as Lydia stared up at him with hard, calculating eyes. “You’re not… if Talia Hale is pressuring you to join her Pack—”

“What?” Stiles blinked, totally thrown. “What are you talking about?”

Glancing back into the house, Lydia grabbed Stiles’ arm and all but dragged him outside, onto the front step. She was barefoot, wearing nothing but yoga pants and a sweater for an afternoon hanging around with the kids, but didn’t seem to care.

“Talia Hale,” she said again, quietly, and squeezed Stiles’ elbow. “At the party, Jackson noticed she was getting very... familiar. You ask me to take the kids for the day, and you’re all dressed up on a _Saturday_ , and you didn’t say one word to me about a meeting or anything like that. I know you want the babies to go to Fáelán, but she’s only one member of the admissions board, so if she’s pressuring you—”

“Are you— Lydia, seriously?” It felt like a joke, but Lydia looked so earnest. Stiles had no idea where the hell this was coming from. “Are you giving me the bad-touch talk right now? Need I remind you how many shifters I’ve told to screw off about this Pack bullshit? Your husband included, in case that slipped your mind.”

Jackson had broached the topic twice. Once in their senior year of high school, a few weeks after their college admissions letters started coming in. Suddenly, the reality of everybody splitting up had gotten way too real; Jackson had bypassed his parents, and gone straight to his Alpha in Sacramento. While Stiles had appreciated the sentiment, he hadn’t appreciated the assumption that he’d be totally cool signing on as Jackson’s pet human, or whatever, and bending neck to some Alpha he’d never met.

The second time had been shortly after the twins were born, unsurprisingly, because everybody had a goddamn opinion about Malia. Stiles had been a little less pissed, and a little more hurt when Jackson had brought it up that time, but with an eight-months-pregnant Lydia refereeing and threatening grievous bodily harm, they’d eventually talked it out. Like grownups, or something. Weird.

“Talia isn’t pressuring me into anything.” Waving his hands, Stiles motioned vaguely to his whole person. “Whatever you’re imagining is going on here, it’s definitely not that. I don’t know what the hell Jackson’s been telling you, but she’s never even hinted she wants me or the kids in her Pack. And honestly? It’s been freaking _refreshing_.”

Lydia frowned, clearly unconvinced. “Maybe you just haven’t noticed—”

“I would have noticed.” Stiles resisted the urge to bury his hands in his hair. He’d put too much effort into achieving this tastefully just-fucked bedhead look, and he wasn’t going to let frustration ruin it now. “You know me, Lyds. I would have noticed if Talia was getting all _Alpha Hale_ at me, and I would’ve told her where she could stick her scholarship if that was the going rate. Come on, I just ironed a shirt, for fuck— fu- _fudge_.”

It was a clumsy save, but the best he could do when Lydia’s front door burst open without warning, and three little kids spilled out.

“Dad,” Malia said, drawing out the vowel in a long whine. She definitely sounded wheedling, not upset, and Stiles braced himself. “We want to give Uncle Peter a present, please? Can you give it to him?”

Oh, _hell_. He hadn’t said a word about meeting Peter in front of the kids. He could tell Malia five million times to pick up her toys, and still almost break his neck tripping over Cookie Monster in the upstairs hallway, but the one thing he’d tried to keep from her little shifter ears was the thing that sank right in. This was his life.

“Please,” Malia repeated, when Stiles didn’t provide an answer immediately. “‘Cause you told Grandpa we can’t come see him with you, but—”

“But we _wanna_ ,” Scott mumbled, scuffing his sock sullenly, then grunted when Isaac elbowed him. “I mean, we wanna give him a present.”

Stiles locked his attention on the kids, studiously avoiding meeting Lydia’s eyes. He could already feel her laser focus burning a hole in his skull, and kneeling down to get on the kids’ level didn’t really help get him out of the line of fire the way he’d hoped it might.

“Alright, amigos.” Setting aside the inevitable shitstorm he could sense brewing with Lydia, Stiles was still aware enough to know when he was about to be played. Perched down on one knee, he narrowed his eyes warily, while a trio of cherubic faces looked far too innocently back at him. “What’s the present? Lay it on me.”

On the list of things he expected, Stiles could honestly say that what actually happened next did not break his top ten possibilities. Not even his top fifty.

Malia stretched out little grasping hands, as though asking for a hug, and Stiles opened up his own arms in automatic reflex. His daughter then proceeded to pounce on him, grab his cheeks, and mash her lips against his with a hard, smacking kiss.

That wasn’t the weird part; both his kids kissed him regularly, and he kissed them back with enthusiasm, all over their squishy little faces. Scott still had a particular affection for kisses and raspberries on the soles of his pruney feet right after a bath, and Malia always beamed like the sun after a peck on the forehead or the tip of her nose. They were super affectionate cuddle bugs of the highest order.

No, the surprising part came after the kiss, when Malia leaned back, stared at him with complete seriousness, and said: “Promise you’ll give him smooches, Dad.”

“Uh.” Stiles was lost. So very lost. “What? Lia, baby—”

“Pinkie swear,” Isaac hissed, quietly but fervently, and Malia’s eyebrows shot upward, disappearing beneath her bangs. She peeled one tiny hand from the side of Stiles’ face, and held it out in front of him with her little finger crooked conspicuously upward.

“Dad? Promise?”

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispered, staring at his daughter’s sincerely solemn bearing. She was not screwing around. He could literally feel the heat crawling up his neck and over his face as she stared him down.

He was _blushing_ , and Lydia was _watching_ , and there was not a single goddamn thing he could do about any of it.

“Why,” he started to say, then cleared his throat when it became crystal clear that he didn’t have any control over his vocal chords at the moment. He was squeaking like a rusty hinge, because this situation obviously needed to get more mortifying. “Babes, why the— why the heck do you guys want to give smooches to Peter?”

“‘Cause we wanna keep—” Whatever Malia was going to say was lost under the press of her brother’s fingers over her mouth, as Scott darted in to desperately shush her.

“It’s important,” Scott said, turning his grip on Malia into a sloppy hug that she melted back into. “Please, Dad? Promise?”

“Guys, I can’t just go around smooching people.” Stiles tried his best to keep his tone level, scrubbing one hand over his jaw. “Smooches are special for family, like Grandpa and Mel, and Aunt Lydia and Uncle Jackson. How about… how about I give Peter a fist bump, huh?”

The kids did not look even remotely appeased, wearing a trio of screwed up frowns, and Stiles didn’t dare look to Lydia for support.

“And anyway,” he said, grasping at straws. “I can’t _promise_ , because not everybody wants kisses and hugs, remember? You’re supposed to ask if it’s okay, and I don’t know if Peter would be cool with it or not.”

“But you’re the best at smooches,” Malia said, clearly incredibly insulted by the idea that someone might refuse her dad’s kisses. In another circumstance, that would have been hilarious.

“And you give super great hugs, Uncle Stiles,” Isaac added, nodding enthusiastically. This was turning into quite the pep talk.

Scott was the only one not leaping to Stiles’ defense. The boy looked deeply contemplative, with his eyebrows knit together, and his bottom lip clenched between his teeth. Contemplative, or possibly constipated; it was sometimes hard to tell with Scotty.

“Dad’s right,” Scott said after a moment, then waggled his eyebrows meaningfully at his sister. When his kids got all twins-y psychic like this, Stiles had learned to be on his guard. “We gotta ask first.”

“We gotta— oh _yeah_.” And just like that, Malia’s smile was blooming bright and toothy. “Yeah, okay. We’ll ask.”

Oh, crap. Stiles was going to have to warn Peter that, the next time his kids saw their future teacher, they were going to gang up and ask the guy if he was willing to let Stiles _smooch him_. How was a reasonable adult person supposed to explain that? More importantly, how in the hell was Stiles supposed to explain that, to the dude he really sort of might want to smooch but probably shouldn’t, and still maintain even the barest sliver of composure about this whole thing? This was totally going to blow any chance Stiles had of playing it cool, god damn it.

And whether he was genuinely down with the smooches or not, Peter was going to be _such_ a smug fucking asshole about this.

That train of thought was promptly derailed when Malia threw herself at him again, snuggling tightly against his chest. “Hug!”

“What— Whoa, okay, yeah! Okay, princess.”

“Love you,” Malia mumbled into his shirt, wriggling in his arms like an excited puppy. Before he could return the sentiment, she was squirming away, and her brother was taking her place, looping his arms around Stiles’ neck.

“Love you, Dad!”

Stiles sighed, entirely defeated by cuteness, and splayed his hand against his son’s back. “Love you too, buddy. Hey— oh, hey Isaac.”

“Hi Uncle Stiles,” Isaac said, squishing in behind Scott. Stiles stretched, wrapping an arm around the other boy too. The more the merrier, apparently.

“Honestly,” Lydia said, and when Stiles glanced over, he found her with her eyes closed, rubbing one temple with her fingers. “Babies, I need to talk to Stiles for a few minutes before he leaves. Why don’t you go play?”

The ensuing chorus of agreement and scamper back into the house was quicker than Stiles had anticipated, but then again, Isaac had gotten some pretty awesome toys for Christmas. Once the dust settled, Stiles was left standing on the Martin-Whittemores’ front porch, withering under the power of Lydia’s steely stare.

“Bye, kids,” he called, shifting one foot a fraction of an inch backward, and honestly considering making a run for his car.

“Don’t even think about it,” Lydia snapped, crossing her arms and cocking her hip, and any faint hope Stiles may have harboured immediately deflated like the world’s saddest balloon. Still, he gave it the old college try.

“Lyds, I’m going to be late—”

“Oh? Late to meet _Uncle Peter_?” Stepping closer, Lydia lowered her voice to a dangerous whisper. “Stiles, what colour are your underwear?”

“What?” Stiles flinched back, and nearly ended up pinwheeling off the step for his trouble. “That’s— that’s a very personal question—”

Lydia had him backed against the railing, hemming him in without actually touching him. “ _Stiles_.”

“Red! They’re red, okay?” Probably about the same colour as his face at the moment, to be honest. “Yes, they’re lucky underwear, and yes I’m going out for coffee with Peter Hale. No, I have no intention of letting him get an eyeful of said underwear, so for the love of god, put the scary scowl away, please?”

“Peter Hale,” Lydia repeated, making absolutely no effort to crank her certifiably deadly expression down a couple of notches, or step back even an inch. “You’re going on a coffee date with Peter Hale, and you didn’t tell me.”

“It’s coffee, not a date—”

“Red, Stiles. And you ironed that shirt.”

Scrubbing at the nape of his neck, Stiles offered a weak half-shrug. “It’s maybe not _not_ a date, either?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Lydia said, shaking her head and finally, _finally_ giving him some breathing room. It was possible she sounded at least a little fond, amongst all the annoyance, but that might have been wishful thinking. “I assume I don’t have to list all the reasons why this is a monumentally dumb idea?”

“If I say _no you don’t_ , could I go—”

“Including, but not limited to,” Lydia continued, as if Stiles hadn’t said a word. “The fact that he’s going to be teaching our children in a few months, and this adds an unnecessary complication to that relationship. The fact that you’re so out of practice with dating, I’m surprised you haven’t calcified. Or maybe the fact that Peter Hale is an ass, with a reputation among the shifters in this town that frankly makes me leery to let Isaac anywhere near him.”

“Oh my god, that’s such _crap_.” There was a difference between listening to admittedly legitimate concerns, and letting his best friend shit all over some dude who probably only half deserved it. Stiles straightened up, squaring his shoulders. “And you know it, Lydia. You would’ve dropped Fáelán in a hot second if you’d heard a single less than stellar word about how Peter teaches. Yeah, he’s an asshole, with a smartass attitude and a mean streak a mile wide, but so am I, so are you, and so’s that douchebag you married. What, you worried Jackson’s got serious competition for Miss Congeniality this year?”

Without giving her a chance to respond, Stiles threw his hands in the air and all but leapt down the steps to Lydia’s front walkway. “No, you know what? I’ve got a date, with this dude I met who’s pretty freaking great, and I’m not gonna be late. I’ll be back for the twins in a couple hours.”

He didn’t look back as he marched out to his car, eating up the distance with long strides. Lydia didn’t call out to him.

She was still standing on the step when he peeled out of the driveway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the first time I haven't had at least one extra chapter written as a buffer. With Steter Week coming up in July, updates on Glitter might drop a bit as I work on other fics, but probably only by about a week. So instead of weekly, they'd be twice a month, or I hope so anyway. This is just your heads up on that, you lovely folks.


	14. So About That Coffee Date

Peter parked his car, not too far from the coffee shop Stiles had chosen, and took a moment to give his hair and teeth a quick check in the rear-view mirror. He was about twenty minutes early, which was strategic, instinctual, and habitual.

Whenever he played security for Talia, he always arrived in plenty of time to survey the area first, sniffing out potential threats. When it came to his pups, his protective instincts were even stronger. As a Hale Beta, Peter had certain responsibilities to patrol their territory regularly; the fact that his patrols included a rotating schedule of all the neighbourhoods of his current and former students hadn’t raised any suspicions.

Stepping out into the January sun, Peter took a slow, deep breath, bracing himself against the onslaught of scents that permeated downtown Beacon Hills. Filtering through it all was almost impossible, but there were a few things he was always keyed to notice: wolfsbane, gunpowder, and blood were high on that list.

At the moment, the strongest smells were car exhaust, humans, and coffee. Nothing that put his hackles up, except a particularly obnoxious cologne somewhere nearby, but he still decided to take a walk around the block to kill time and get himself better oriented.

The coffee shop itself was nothing special— a local café restaurant chain, not big enough to be state-wide, but not small enough to be overly cramped or kitschy either— and only a few streets away from Shelf Indulgence. A comfortable walking distance for a short jaunt, when Stiles was at work. Familiar territory for the other man.

Peter enjoyed relative anonymity in Beacon Hills, at least compared to Talia. Most other werewolves knew him, by reputation if nothing else, but among the human population, he was usually just a kindergarten teacher. A Hale, sure, but he wasn’t a public figure like his sister, and that was precisely how he liked it. There were a number of benefits to being able to walk around town, standing out or blending in as he chose.

One of his very favourite minor satisfactions was the ability to scare the shit out of humans. When his shoulder was bumped hard as he strolled down the sidewalk, there wasn’t a single word of apology from the man who’d clipped him. The asshole actually had the audacity to glare, but any gravely ill-considered irritation drained out of him when Peter bared his teeth, with a mouthful of gleaming fangs.

The man’s heart rate skyrocketed, and he nearly tripped over his own feet scrambling to get away. Brakes shrieked and car horns blared as he darted across the street, nearly getting run over in his panic to put as much distance between himself and Peter as possible. It was an even better reaction than Peter had expected, to be honest.

Humans demanded that werewolves be fully documented on their inane shifter registries: fingerprints, hair and blood samples, dental impressions, and endless other details all meticulously recorded and regularly updated. The government had collected more invasive information on the werewolf pups in Peter’s class than they kept on convicted sex offenders. They wanted to know every last thing about these dangerous creatures that lurked among them, but when they were faced with actual an actual living, breathing, unapologetic werewolf? In Peter’s experience, the average human fell back to primitive terror.

They were always so _surprised_. As if the Anagnorisis had been a dream, and they expected the world to have righted itself by now, sending werewolves back into the realm of legend and horror movies.

Years of assimilation, built on longstanding caution and the vain hope of acceptance, had bred this state of affairs: they were known and feared, but still acting as though they were hiding. Werewolves didn’t snarl at perfect strangers, and they certainly didn’t brandish their fangs in the middle of a busy sidewalk. They didn’t shift in public. Some wolves didn’t even scent mark each other where unfriendly humans might see.

Whether or not she’d intended it— and she would always insist that hiding their nature had never been her goal— this was what Talia’s brand of cooperation and _peaceful relations_ had helped foster. Werewolves suffered through nearly all of the pain in the ass paranoia and skulking around that their parents and grandparents had endured before the Anagnorisis, with the added bonus of having their entire existence catalogued and scrutinized as well.

And the worst was yet to come; Peter saw it every day. The pups that started his class each September were already stifling themselves so they didn’t run too fast or act so blatantly strong. They almost invariably stared at him with wide-eyed wonder the first time he laid a hand on their napes, gentling and scenting, reassuring them through touch in a way they were naturally wired to appreciate, and he did the exact same to their human classmates. There were always gasps the first day he casually opened a box with his claws, because they’d already been taught that their shift was not a casual thing. It wasn’t nice to make the humans uncomfortable, after all.

It wasn’t a bad idea, within reason, to teach young wolves that their abilities had the potential to be dangerous. To teach them good judgement, self control, and discretion. All those things had certainly been drummed into Peter’s head when he’d been a boy, and they were vital lessons, even now.

Peter had been seven years old when the Anagnorisis dragged werewolves into the spotlight. He hardly remembered that brief window of time when he’d been considered a relatively normal little kid by the world at large, but he did remember being afraid. Afraid of messing up, of being seen. Afraid of hunters, always, and even a little afraid of himself.

 _Discovery meant death_. Those had been the watchwords of werewolves for generations. Now, in this post-Anagnorisis world, Peter worried those words still held too much truth. Werewolves were simply rolling belly up and accepting a death that would take much longer than any wolfsbane bullet.

Coming out of the shadows was always going to mean facing suspicion and fear from the majority human population. But if they were going to be card-carrying shifters, literally, with all the troubles that being so profoundly _othered_ brought with it, then they shouldn’t be clinging to the limitations of the past as well. It was destroying them, in a way that centuries of secrecy hadn’t managed. And instead of relying on hunters, or villagers with pitchforks, or their own government to wipe them out, they were doing it to themselves.

It was making them unforgivably weak. They’d already been discovered; they needed to stop teaching their children to be afraid of being seen.

So Peter snapped his teeth and bared his claws in public, and he definitely snarled at strangers in the street if they were assholes. He taught his pups to be proud, to take no shit, to be clever and unafraid.

Peter drew his fangs back, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip as he continued his walk. He left several unnerved people in his wake, muttering and watching him warily, and the thought made him smile.

Wandering a bit longer brought him back to the coffee shop eventually, where he was content to loiter outside instead of grabbing a table, unbothered by the incoming clouds lending a grey cast to the day, and the dampness in the air that promised rain later. Stiles wasn’t late yet, but it was near enough to the time they’d agreed to meet that Peter had started to breathe in, expecting to catch a specific scent at any moment, while keeping an ear trained for the rhythm of a quick heartbeat.

Instead of any of that, what he got was the inoffensive trill of his cell phone, popping up with an incoming video call just as he was idly checking his email.

The call display clearly read _Smartass_ , but when Peter accepted the call, it wasn’t Stiles looking back at him from the screen.

“I told you,” a young voice squealed, and the video wobbled drunkenly as the phone was passed between little grasping hands. “It’s him!”

Peter watched, fascinated and more than a little confused, as Stiles’ twins, plus the Martin-Whittemore boy, Isaac, all tried to squish their heads together and peer at him.

“Hi Uncle Peter,” Scott said, wiggling his fingers just barely within the frame of the video.

“Our dad puts silly names on his phone for everybody important,” Malia added, before Peter could return the greeting, or ask what the hell was going on.

“But we figured it out,” Isaac said, leaning in from his position just above and behind the twins’ fluffy hair. “‘Cause it still says _Hale_ , only sorta. Lia sounded it out.”

“That’s very good, Lia.” The praise was almost an automatic response at this point, and Malia beamed at him. “Pups, where is Stiles?”

“He was talking to Aunt Lydia on the porch,” Malia said. “But I heard him leave a while ago. He’s coming to see you, did you know that?”

All three pups suddenly looked stricken, turning wide eyes towards each other.

“Was it ‘posed to be a surprise?” Isaac whispered, and the twins shrugged, clearly anxious. Peter held back the laugh threatening to bubble up, keeping his face calmly pleasant. This was a bizarre turn of events, but not a disagreeable one. It might even be an opportunity.

“It wasn’t a surprise, pups,” he assured them. “It’s alright. Hey Malia, can you tell me what silly name your dad put in his phone for me, please? I’m curious.”

“Uh-huh.” Biting her lip for a second, the girl seemed to think hard. “We guessed ‘cause the last name. It was right under Ms. Talia in the list, but instead of just Hale, like her, it was Hale _hound_.”

“A hound is a dog,” Scott said. “There’s a song about a hound dog that Grandpa listens to in his cruiser sometimes. He taught me and Lia the words.”

 _Halehound_. That was clever, actually. Peter smirked, considering a few options to replace _Smartass_ in his own contact list. He’d wanted to keep it rather generic, on the off chance one of his sisters got hold of his cell and unlocked it somehow, since he’d learned years ago to play better safe than sorry with those two. Now that the cat was out of the bag as far as Talia was concerned, however, he had no illusions that Beth would be far behind. He’d be expecting a call since Wednesday night, to be honest, but it was very possible that Bethany was biding her time to spring all her teasing on him in person, during the Wolf Moon.

“But we still had to guess, ‘cause the first name wasn’t Peter,” Malia kept explaining, quite obviously proud of their detective work. “It was C-U-J…” She trailed off, glancing at her brother, who added the _O_ that Peter had predicted. “Yeah! C-U-J-O.”

“Of course.” It certainly wasn’t the worst nickname he’d ever suffered. Halehound was funnier.

“We gotta ask you something, Uncle Peter,” Scott said, even as Peter noticed a familiar scent on the breeze. Glancing up, he caught sight of Stiles approaching down the sidewalk, dressed lean and neat in a black jacket and slim, bottle green pants that made his legs look nine miles long.

“Could I ask you something first, pups?” Reluctantly dragging his attention away from the edible figure Stiles cut, Peter studied the trio of children peering up from his phone. “Malia, Scott, does your dad know you’re calling me?”

“Um.” The guilty little pouts were answer enough, but Scott rallied quite handily. “Dad didn’t say we _weren’t_ allowed to.”

“I see.” Stiles was closing in now, and Peter made sure to catch his eye, motioning him over despite being in the middle of a phone call. “And does Stiles know you have his phone?”

“What?” Stiles said, half squawk and half whisper. His hand immediately went to the pocket of his coat, feeling outside first, then reaching in. When he pulled out a box of crayons instead of the iPhone he’d likely expected, Stiles stared at the yellow and green cardboard for a long, silent moment. “What.”

Stepping close, Peter made sure that both he and Stiles were visible in the frame of the call; it didn’t necessarily require him to wrap an arm around Stiles’ waist, but the touch wasn’t shrugged off. All three kids shrank back when Stiles’ head finally lifted, staring at Peter’s phone.

“Hi kids,” Stiles said evenly. “You, uh, decided to kidnap my phone, huh? That’s what the hugs were all about?”

“Dad, it’s not—”

“We just _borrowed_ it—”

“Malia. Scott.” Peter was positive he’d never heard that tone of voice from Stiles before. Serious, not quite angry, but definitely stern. It was very appealing. “You know you aren’t supposed to take things that aren’t yours. You know we’re going to talk about this when we get home. Isaac, you know I’m going to talk to your mom and dad about this, too.”

“You said we needed to ask,” Scott said, with stubbornness that Peter could certainly appreciate even if he didn’t know all the details yet, and Stiles pressed his forehead into his palm, sighing. “It was my idea, Dad, ‘cause you said—”

“Scotty thought it first, but I found your phone,” Malia cut in.

“And I swapped it for crayons,” Isaac added, wrapping his arms around Scott from behind.

“I am Spartacus,” Peter murmured under his breath, and Stiles elbowed him in the ribs.

“You _told_ us to ask Uncle Peter if he wanted you to smooch him,” Scott continued, and if Peter hadn’t been fascinated by this entire fiasco to start, he certainly was then.

“Oh my god, I didn’t mean—” Sticky sweet embarrassment rolled off of Stiles in waves, and Peter breathed it in hungrily, possibly less subtle than he could have been. It earned him a sideways look, and Peter was able to pinpoint the exact moment that Stiles realised they were wound up in what basically amounted to a loose embrace on the sidewalk, pressed together side to side. Instead of backing off, Peter took a chance, and tightened his fingers around the jut of Stiles’ hip.

“Dad,” Malia said softly. “Are you mad?”

“I, uh—” Shaking his head, Stiles took a deep breath, and glanced back at the phone still held in Peter’s hand. “I’m not happy about the stealing, kiddos. We’re going to have a talk about it later.”

“But what about—”

“Nope.” Stiles held up one finger, and Scott trailed off, his face falling into a silent frown. “That’s it. Nothing else, nada, nein. Now, go give my phone— wait, no. Lia, go put my phone in the pocket of your coat; flick the button on the side that makes it silent, okay? Then somebody’s got to go tell Aunt Lydia that I don’t have it, so if she needs me for something, uh—”

“I’ll send her a text,” Peter said, offering Stiles a modest shrug. As if he made a habit of giving out his personal number to the type of overzealous parent Lydia Martin seemed to be. “Then she’ll have a number to call if there’s a problem.”

“Seriously?” Stiles’ smile was warm and endearingly crooked, and somehow worth the inevitable annoyance. “That’s awesome, man, thanks.”

The chance of Stiles cancelling their date because he’d left his children somewhere without a means of emergency contact wasn’t a risk Peter had been willing to take. Especially not with Stiles already leaning in a solid line against him, close enough to taste, and the idea of _smooches_ apparently having been discussed.

Granted, there was also the issue of three young kids watching them avidly through a four inch screen, but that was becoming much less of a concern as Stiles continued to gravitate closer.

He and Stiles were nearly the same height, with Peter standing maybe an inch shorter; perfect to bury his nose in the sweet scent behind Stiles’ ear, and set his teeth against the long column of the pale, sinewy throat laid out like a buffet. With that complexion, Stiles looked as though he’d bruise like a peach, and his humanity meant he might stay that way for days or longer, marked with blotchy red that coaxed the smell of iron from under his skin, and wearing the imprints of Peter’s teeth.

One of the pups, possibly Isaac, let out a shrill, excited whine, and suddenly Stiles’ attention snapped away before he could drift even further into Peter’s space.

“Silent, then coat pocket,” Stiles said again, blissfully unaware how close he'd just come to a very pleasant, but very public mauling. “No phone games, because you took without asking. And I’ll _know_ , so don’t even try it. Do you hear me, children?”

“Yes, Dad,” the twins chorused glumly, while Isaac added his own, “Yes, Uncle Stiles.”

“Good. I love you guys, yeah?”

The relatively subdued goodbyes that followed were still a flurry of _love you_ s and blown kisses, and Peter wasn’t forgotten by the pups. They were affectionate little things— Stiles’ kids especially seemed to lead the charge when it came to effusive gestures, with Isaac following their cues.

Finally, the call disconnected, and Peter didn’t flinch when Stiles sagged against him, resting his forehead against Peter’s shoulder.

“Shit.” The curse gusted out, exhaled hotly across the collar of Peter’s thin sweater, tickling the hollow of his throat. “That was… ugh.”

Stiles straightened up, with a visibly pained expression knitting his brows together. “So, yeah, those were my kids, the world’s cuddliest pickpockets, who apparently know my phone passcode too. My dad’s going to have a freaking field day about this, _shit_. Sorry about whatever crazy talk they were laying on you, ‘cause you know, kids and their wacky ideas, right—”

“They didn’t have a chance to ask.” Stiles made a noise like air leaking from a balloon, keenly irritating so close to Peter’s ear, but he hadn’t stepped back. He hadn’t made a move to put one further inch of space between them, since Peter had latched on and drawn him near.

“The pups,” Peter clarified, when Stiles didn’t say another word, just stared with eyes like dark honey and his mouth gaping open, tempting and ridiculous. “They didn’t actually ask, about whether I’d want you to kiss me. Though I suppose it wouldn’t have been the most morally upright lesson about the benefits of stealing if I’d had the chance to say yes.”

“You—”

“Me,” Peter agreed, letting his own mouth curve up when Stiles’ eyes flickered down to his lips. “Coffee?”

“Coffee,” Stiles repeated, dazed, and Peter made the executive decision to ease off for the moment, dragging his hand around to rest on the small of Stiles’ back rather than gripping his hip.

“Come on,” he said, coaxing, and Stiles stumbled just a little before falling in step beside him.

“You… want me to kiss you,” Stiles said, while being ushered through the door of the coffee shop. Peter hummed, with a small, teasing smile playing around his mouth, and studied the menu board hanging above the baristas. “You’re not— Peter. Shit, Peter, we have to talk about this.”

“That’s why we’re getting coffee.” There was a line at the counter, but only a few people deep, and the staff were moving through them quickly. “How are the lattes here? I can’t stand it if the milk tastes burnt.”

“The lattes are fine, and are you freaking serious right now?” The sentence degraded into hissed whispering halfway through, gritted through Stiles’ teeth.

“Extremely serious. Burnt milk is disgusting, and werewolf senses extend to taste, you know.”

“Oh my _god_.” Spying an empty table further inside, with a good view of the front door, Peter gave Stiles a gentle push, urging him forward.

“Of course you’d pick a café with lucky bamboo on every table,” he said, manhandling an unresisting Stiles into a chair before settling in, stripping off his jacket, and pulling out his cell. “Ought to get this over with. Here, to text Ms. Martin.”

“I can’t even with you.” Stiles wriggled out of his own coat and took the phone, sending Peter a narrow-eyed glare from across the table before turning his attention to his texting. “If you’re just jerking me around right now—”

“Hi there.” Peter smiled charmingly at the young human man who appeared at his shoulder with notepad at the ready, before he could even think of heading back up to the counter. Stiles was amusing enough that he only had to fake a fraction of his good humour. “I’ll have a regular hazelnut latte, and light on the syrup, please. Stiles?”

Stiles blinked, looking from Peter to the boy, seemingly shocked that they were actually ordering coffee. “Uh, yeah, hi Rowan. I’ll just have the usual, thanks.”

“Large Snickers Mocha, with whip, four shots of espresso,” the boy rhymed off, his cheeks dimpling and flushing, and his heartbeat skipping, but not with a lie. The rich smells permeating the café didn’t entirely obscure the rush of his scent, spice-warm with a hint of nervousness. Infatuation, obviously.

Peter reached over the table, laying his hand casually on Stiles’ wrist.

“I believe,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the knob of one bony knuckle. “I was promised a cookie. Haven’t I been good, sweetheart?”

“For a particularly loose definition of _good_ , maybe.” Stiles heaved a long-suffering sigh, but kept his hands on the table, still holding the phone and allowing Peter’s touch. “And a plate of cookies, too, Rowan. Maybe a couple of those chocolate chunk ones, or the fudgey peanut butter, but otherwise, surprise us.”

“I— Yeah, sure thing, Stiles.” The young man visibly deflated, which Stiles failed to notice, once again engrossed in composing his text. Peter maintained his smile, perfectly pleasant, as the boy hesitated for another few seconds before scampering off.

“How do you not have predictive text turned on,” Stiles muttered, mashing his thumbs against the screen. “How do you text like you do, and not have spell check enabled? You’re a mutant; I called it. I called it before, and I’ve never been so right. This is freakish.”

“I literally teach spelling for a living. Also, I’m not jerking you around.” The tendons in Stiles’ arm tensed as his fingers tightened around the phone, but he didn’t look up. “I did actually agree to this date, you know; you didn’t twist my arm. If anything, you made me wait.”

“I made you— hang on a second.” There was a swooshing noise, the sound of a sent text, and then Stiles was setting the phone down on the dark wooden tabletop. “I made you _wait_ , what now? When, at any point, did I even hint that you had to wait for anything? You couldn’t have said something, maybe? Was this selective mutism? Oh god, tell me this arrogant dick veneer is just a front for crippling shyness.”

“You’re cute,” Peter said, giving Stiles’ wrist a squeeze, and apparently reminding the man that they were indeed very close to holding hands. “I was waiting, because I prefer being able to tell Alan that _you_ asked _me_ out, if it ever comes up. Makes fraternizing with a parent neater for everyone if one of his staff wasn’t the initiator, even if this isn’t breaking any rules.” It would also be much more satisfying when Talia eventually asked, but that wasn’t important at the moment.

“ _Fraternizing—_ Jesus Christ.” There was an audible slap as Stiles brought his free hand to his own jaw, rubbing over his mouth. “I’m fraternizing now. My kids aren’t even in kindergarten yet, and I’m a dirty fraternizer. I can’t tell if I’m more freaked out or turned on. This is _terrible_.”

“I’ve been told I have that effect on people. I take it as a compliment.”

“Of course you do.” The phone beeped, lighting up the screen, and Stiles slid it towards himself. He also curled the tip of his finger under the cuff of Peter’s sweater, where it was pushed partway up his forearm. “Okay, Lydia knows who to call, just in case.”

“Good. Let’s get back to the part where I turn you on.” There was a fumbling clatter, and Peter whipped around in his chair, just quick enough to catch the serving tray before anything could spill too tragically. Both coffees sloshed slightly over the edges of their cups, but the messes were contained to their respective saucers; Stiles cursed under his breath, rising out of his chair.

“Oh my god!” _Rowan_ was certainly living up to his name at the moment: the boy was flushed deep red, all across the apples of his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, oh my god—”

“No harm done,” Peter said, easily hoisting the tray back into the boy’s mildly trembling hands, and not letting go completely until he was fairly confident he wasn’t about to end up drenched in hot mocha. The pale blue of Peter’s sweater was particularly flattering, and it would have been a shame to get coffee and blood all over it.

“You okay, Ro?” One of the other baristas called from the counter, and the boy waved her off, possibly a little desperately.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine.” He took a breath, staring down at the tray. “I’ll just— I’ll go get your drinks again, I’m so sorry—”

“Nah, wait no, it’s totally fine,” Stiles said, sitting down again. “Don’t even worry about it. Nothing even really spilled. We’re good, just slide that sweet, sweet sugar down this way, Rowan, my man. Sure you’re okay?”

The boy nodded, tight-lipped but smiling, and proceeded to set their order out across the table.

“What is that monstrosity,” Peter said, the moment the huge ceramic cup was placed in front of Stiles, heaped with sagging whipped cream, and generously drizzled with chocolate and caramel.

“Hold your heathen tongue,” Stiles responded instantly, steadying the coffee for one long, noisy slurp. He came up for air, shamelessly licking cream off his top lip, and Peter rolled his eyes to keep from shoving the table out of the way and pouncing. “You know a tempest in a teapot? Well, my hand to god, I would go so far as to call this an orgasm in a mug. Hey, thanks buddy.”

“Sweetheart, you really need a better calibre of orgasm.” It was easy to ignore the thud of Rowan clipping himself clumsily off another table as the boy retreated. Peter really only cared to focus on Stiles, cataloguing the uptick in his pulse and the sly sharpening of his eyes. “I can help with that.”

“Subtle,” Stiles said, nodding with fake thoughtfulness. “But really, you’re just jealous, with your sad little plain milky coffee.”

Peter paused with his own drink hovering just in front of his mouth, inhaling the scent and the steady heat. It smelled as though they cleaned the machines fairly regularly, thank Christ. “Please tell me this isn’t the part where you offer me a sip of that thing.”

“Are you kidding? No way in hell.” Stiles wrapped his hands around the mug, hunching over it protectively. “This is mine. You might not know what you’re missing, but I do, and I’m not giving up a drop of this ambrosia. I might even lick the saucer, and I refuse to be judged about it.”

“Charming.”

“Aren’t I just.” Reaching out, Stiles nabbed one of the cookies, dotted with thick chunks of chocolate. “Charming enough to _wait for_ , huh, Cujo? Eat a cookie and examine your life choices.”

 

* * *

 

“So, we never really established,” Stiles said, keeping close enough that their shoulders brushed as they ambled down the sidewalk, through the early evening air. “Whether there’s more stuff you’re planning to just wait for. You got a list or something? Because if I’m going to be twisting in the wind here—”

Peter reached up, wrapping his hand around Stiles’ nape and letting it rest there. Stiles straightened, tensing for a fraction of a second, before slowly leaning into the touch with an audible exhale.

Neither of them said anything for a short while, just walked, tethered together. Peter hadn’t questioned the direction Stiles chose when they’d exited the café, and he huffed a quiet laugh when he caught sight of his car, along with the blue Kia parked in the same lot, two spaces down.

They weaved over towards the cars, approaching the Kia first. When they stopped by the back bumper, Peter started to move his hand away, lingering a bit to drag it over Stiles’ pulse, and had his wrist grabbed for his trouble.

“Just, yeah,” Stiles said, holding Peter’s hand against the side of his own neck. The shrinking space between was much more charged with intent this time, making Peter’s skin prickle. “This is… yeah?”

“You know, your kids were much more articulate—”

The slow, firm pressure of the kiss wasn’t a shock, and Peter was more than happy to shut up, close his eyes, and sink into his first proper taste. Stiles’ lips were as soft as they looked, plush and pliant, softly bruising against his own. Peter made a low, pleased sound when he felt a hand creeping up, cool and callused where it cupped his jaw.

Peter’s eyes opened again when Stiles pulled away, only a few seconds later and far too soon.

“This okay?” Stiles whispered, and it was such a stupid question, Peter didn’t even bother with a sarcastic answer, let alone a sincere one.

The aftertaste of Stiles’ ridiculous coffee was thick and sweet, but not quite as sweet as the breath that Stiles gasped between them when Peter crowded him up against the hatchback of the Kia. As tempting as it might have been to slot his knee between Stiles’ slim thighs, Peter kept a sliver of space separating their bodies instead, tilting his head and bringing their mouths together again.

He had one hand braced against the car, and the other, he carded into Stiles’ hair. Stiles made a punched out, reedy whine when Peter bit gently at his bottom lip, tightening his fingers around Peter’s wrist.

“God, _Peter—_ ” He wanted to mark, to suck a livid bruise into the delicate skin just under Stiles’ chin. The throaty rasp of his name, the clutch of Stiles’ hand against his cheek pulling him closer, was playing havoc with his self control. He glutted himself on a deep inhale, giving into the urge to drag his nose along the cut of Stiles’ jaw instead. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.”

“I’m not that easy,” Peter murmured, which could have easily been a lie, but not this time. Brushing a kiss against one dark, flat mole, then one more, he finally drew back until he could look Stiles in the eye. “Ask me out to dinner, and we’ll see.”

“Nah, no way.” Stiles’ mouth was sinfully pink and wet, panting breaths in humid little bursts. The heel of his hand smacked against Peter’s shoulder with a dull thud. “Your turn, Cujo. We’re a fraternization team now, no more waiting around, so _use your words_.”

Of course, he had to lean in for another kiss, short but harder, and Stiles met him halfway, eagerly. The Kia pressed against Stiles’ back was fortunate in several ways— unlike in the Benz, Peter could see the clutter of car seats even through the tinted windows. Dragging them both into a backseat was probably not the best idea, no matter how much it might feel like a stroke of genius at the moment.

When they broke apart again, mouths and hands gradually untangling, Peter eased back a step, smirking as Stiles took a second or two to find his feet.

“Shut up,” Stiles said as he pushed away from the car, straightening his coat and the collar of his shirt. Then he reached out, giving the unzippered sides of Peter’s jacket a tug before smoothing them down too. When Peter raised his brows at the pawing, Stiles didn’t flinch. “Oh please, with the face. Like you don’t want me all up on this.”

“Now, I never said that.” Since they’d apparently progressed to mutual grooming, Peter felt perfectly free to reach up and comb a bit of Stiles’ hair back from his temple. It was so soft against his fingers, even with whatever inoffensively bland pomade was holding the loose, attractively mussed style. “I’ll text you about dinner.”

Stiles hummed, smiling; his eyes nearly glowed in the dimming sun. Peter forced himself to take another step back, because otherwise they’d never leave this damn parking lot.

“Oh, say hi to your pickpockets for me,” he said, like an afterthought, and laughed his way over to his car when Stiles flipped him off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anything's not as polished as usual, it's because it's ass o'clock and this just got done. Also, first kisses are a thousand times more stressful to write than sex scenes, btdubs.
> 
> (Also, Stiles went pretty easy on the kids, because you don't seriously scold over the phone, then inflict the resulting weepy/upset kids on your babysitting friends while you go make out with a werewolf. That'd be rude.)


	15. Bro-ittos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless self-promotion time: Steter Week 2.0 has come and gone, and I managed to contribute two stories of my own. If you like fluffy humour, cats, and/or girl Stiles, they might be right up your alley. 
> 
> Also, if you haven't checked out the abundance of other amazing fanworks that came out of that magical week, you are seriously missing out. [Just look at this incredible shit.](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Steter_Week_2015)

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _My kids r smirking at me_
> 
> _No tv or nintendo for two days_
> 
> _Talk from sheriff grandpa abt stealing n they’re still smirking_
> 
> _Giggling n smirking_
> 
> _This is ur fault_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _You’re saying you basically called the cops on those pups._
> 
> _This stern daddy thing is really working for me._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Jfc r u serious rn_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Believe me I’m just as surprised as you are. Not my usual kink, but I’m flexible._
> 
> _Oh and for the record? Having met their dad I have a feeling your kids were already smirky little shits without any influence from me._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Watch it dude_
> 
> _Smack talking my kids not gonna help u get in my pants_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I consider “smirky little shits” to be a compliment._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _U would_
> 
> _Back on topic_
> 
> _Ur sloppy scenting has fucked my serious dad cred_
> 
> _Timeouts have zero power vs all this giggling abt smooches fucksake_
> 
> _My kids r gonna go feral. Hope ur happy_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I think I’m going to like your kids._
> 
>  

* * *

 

Stiles read through the email again, still incredibly pleased about the neat, bulleted list of answers to the questions he’d had. He loved working on this website, far more than he’d ever anticipated when he’d accepted the job. The clients were efficient, with a strategic plan for the purpose of their site and great communication. They understood the importance of clarity, but didn’t crawl up his ass with micromanaging. It was like winning the lottery— no, a client this fantastic to work with was even rarer than that. This was like stumbling across a freaking unicorn.

Plus, considering the site’s content, the copious use of _bulleted lists_ was hilarious.

“A ‘preferred buyers’ option? With secure login. Okay.” Tapping his pen between his top and bottom teeth, Stiles took a few seconds to consider the type of people who would probably make the _preferred buyers_ list with an international firearms dealer and private security consultant. This contract was just so, _so_ cool. More fun than his usual clientele of run-of-the-mill small businesses, and a bigger, more expensive project than a farmers market or a florist. This was easily his most substantial contract in the five years or so he’d been working freelance, both in terms of scope and price, and so far it was going ridiculously well. He definitely owed Danny for pointing these guys his way.

Jotting out a few things quickly on his notepad— digital was great, but a physical list helped him focus— Stiles didn’t get a chance to move on to the next bullet before his cell started ringing.

To his credit, he didn’t freak out nearly as much as he did the first time his call display had read _Talia Hale - Home_. They lived in the same town, sure, but Talia was the sort of person he’d expected to admire from a distance: reading her work, listening to her speeches at a shifter rallies, or even watching her on YouTube doing a freaking TED Talk someday. It was still somewhat surreal that she was calling him on an ordinary Tuesday morning, and that their kids were on their way to being friends. She’d _hugged_ him, for god’s sake. More than once.

And okay, he might have made out with her brother a little bit, but that wasn’t even slightly relevant right now, so he wasn’t going to dwell.

The phone trilled again, and Stiles took a breath before answering. He was gradually getting used to the idea of the Hales having a real, active role in his life, but sometimes it just struck him all at once how weird this was. At least he didn’t fall out of his desk chair.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Stiles? It’s Talia; how are you?”

“Hey Talia, yeah, good. I’m good, kids are good. How are things at Casa Hale? You got back from Oregon alright? Derek mentioned a trip.” And Peter had said something vague about a conference, but Stiles kept that to himself. He pushed his chair slightly away from the laptop and papers strewn all over his desk, giving the call his full attention.

“Yes, I’m home, safe and sound. Got back Sunday night, and we’ve been putting all the last minute things together for the Wolf Moon.” Stiles hummed encouragingly, vaguely curious but not confused. He knew about Wolf Moon rituals in theory, even if he’d never attended.

He’d spent a couple of summers with his mom’s Pack in Washington state when he was a kid, before and after she’d died, but they’d always been… weird about him being human. Not cruel, but definitely exclusionary; there were clear lines that humans weren’t allowed to cross. So, no invitations to the big wolfy reunion party for wayward Claudia’s squishy little son, and John Stilinski certainly wasn’t welcome either.

The bad blood between the Skala Pack and his dad was something Stiles hadn’t fully grasped until he was a teenager, even if he’d always been vaguely aware that something wasn’t quite right. He’d known the Skalas lived out in the middle of nowhere, but he hadn’t realised they’d moved away from their established territory after the Anagnorisis. They were one of the Packs that had chosen isolationism, chosen to retreat from heavily human-populated areas, and as far as Stiles knew, they were still living like that, twenty-five years later.

They’d closed ranks, but Claudia had stayed in California, with her job and her young, mostly human family. Looking back at it now, Stiles’ foggy memories of his earliest Washington visits featured a lot of muffled shouting through closed doors. He remembered his mother holding his hand tightly, his dad’s arms heavy around them both, and his Great Uncle Niels’ glowing red eyes.

Things had only gotten worse after Claudia was killed— Stiles didn’t bother even contemplating what the Skalas probably thought about his mom getting murdered, how she might be alive if she’d gone back to Washington, with or without him and his dad. It wasn’t something John discussed; he’d actually taken pains to keep the tension secret, to let Stiles have some kind of relationship with his mother’s extended family. While Stiles appreciated the thought, even if he despised the idea of his dad swallowing his pride and keeping that shit to himself, it was pretty much a wasted effort. The Skalas treated Stiles like a relative, not family, and there was a world of difference.

Stiles had never seriously considered taking his own kids up to Washington for a visit, and it wasn’t only because shifter regulations meant Malia was too young to fly without yards of red tape and special accommodations. The twins might have a few dozen cousins and other relations in their grandma's old Pack, but none that Stiles trusted to treat both Scott and Malia fairly and equally. It was a hot mess, and Stiles refused to let his kids be dragged into any of it.

“The Wolf Moon is actually one of the reasons I called.” Talia’s voice wrenched his attention out of the past, and back to the conversation at hand. “I wanted to extend an invitation to your family— you, the twins, your father— if you’d like to join us on Thursday.”

It took a couple of seconds for the words to register, and when they did, Stiles was relieved he was sitting down. There was no way he would have stayed steady on his feet if he’d been walking.

“Things usually kick off before noon,” Talia was saying. “It’s potluck, and Bren does lunch and dinner barbecue— hamburgers, sausages, hot dogs. For dinner, we’ve also got steaks and ribs this year, and someone always drags home a boar or something like it before moonrise, to roast for most of the night. Bonfires after dark, s'mores and hot cocoa, that sort of thing. You’re all welcome to stay for the whole night, of course, or how ever long you like. It’s very relaxed.”

 _If Talia Hale is pressuring you to join her Pack_ , Lydia had started to say to him, only three days earlier.

_Jackson noticed she was getting very familiar._

Stiles took another deep breath, hoping Talia couldn’t hear his thundering pulse through the phone. It was just a friendly, thoughtful invitation. A friendly, thoughtful invitation to the biggest, most significant holiday of the year for shifter Packs. She didn’t mean—

“No!” Tilting the phone away for a second, Stiles mouthed a couple of silent, furious curses before scrambling to explain. “I mean, we usually stay in, have some family time. I’m not… Malia’s never been anywhere but home on a full moon.”

“I can absolutely promise she’d be safe,” Talia said, speaking much more softly than before. “The younger pups don’t go far into the woods, and never without plenty of supervision. And if you wanted her to stay nearer the house, there’ll be a cordoned area for play. Scott, too; from everything I’ve seen, I don’t doubt he’d hold his own if he wanted to run with the wolves, but he certainly wouldn’t be the only human child. Everything is well supervised and we take precautions, with the younger teens especially. We’ve never had any trouble with everyone together, if you were worried about that.”

“You—” It made sense that the Hales wouldn’t segregate, even on the Wolf Moon, but the idea still hit Stiles like a truck. His palms were sweating, and the core of his chest was a tight, hard knot. “Talia, I really appreciate the invite, seriously. Let me… let me think about it?”

“Of course, Stiles.” Talia’s voice was still that soothing, understanding tone, and it made his guts squirm. “The Wolf Moon is a time for family, more than anything. We’d all love to see you, but you should do whatever feels best for you and your pups. Consider this a standing invitation to drop by, whenever you like.”

“Right.” _A time for family_. “Thanks, Talia.”

 

* * *

 

His first instinct, when he finally got off the phone with Talia after another fifteen minutes or so of chatting, was to call Peter.

His second instinct, rushing up on him about two seconds later, was to freak out that _call Peter_ was apparently his default for this situation. That was way too much, way too soon.

Setting his phone on the desk, Stiles rolled his chair away until it bumped against his bed, putting some physical distance between himself and everything that had just happened.

He couldn’t just ask Peter about this— what the hell was he supposed to say?

_Hey, dude-I-went-on-one-date-with, is your Alpha sister trying to absorb me and my kids into your Pack?_

Stiles wasn’t sure which answer would be worse, coming from Peter: _yes_ meant some really awkward conversations with the Hales, but _no_ wouldn’t be completely without drama, either. If Stiles was reading too much into this, mentioning anything could easily bring up some uncomfortable discussions. Was he being incredibly presumptuous about the Hales’ opinion of his family? Would they be insulted, either that he presumed they wanted him in their Pack, or that he wasn’t interested?

Worse, what if Peter already knew? What if he knew that his Alpha had designs on the Stilinskis, to offer them a place as packmates? Was this some big plan? Was this what the date, and the texting, and all the flirting was about—

“Oh my _god_.” He nearly knocked his chair over when he stood up, pacing over to the window and rubbing his knuckles against his palm. The dry, rapid rasp of skin against skin was ridiculously loud. “That’s… no. No, he’s not… _fuck_.”

The kids were at preschool, and his dad was at work. There wasn’t another living soul in the house, and Stiles really needed more input than he’d likely get from thinking about a heart-to-heart with his mom. He needed someone to tell him he wasn’t being stupidly paranoid and that this was legitimately a big deal, or conversely, to tell him that he was panicking over nothing and needed to get his head out of his ass. Either would work, at this point.

Normally, that would’ve sounded exactly like a Lydia Martin emergency. Problem was, Stiles wasn’t completely sure whether or not the warnings he could hear blaring like car alarms were Lydia’s words from Saturday, still echoing around his skull, or whether they were products of his own well-honed instincts for this bullshit, late for the party but finally kicking in. Maybe both; they weren’t mutually exclusive options, no matter how much he hated swallowing Lydia’s _I-told-you-so_ s sometimes.

Or maybe it didn’t matter. Lydia might have noticed it first, before Stiles had, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. He’d talked a big game when Lydia had questioned him about it, brushing her off with assurances that _he’d know_ if Talia was getting pushy about the Pack. Had he been too cocky? Too trusting, because of the years he’d spent building up this parasocial relationship with _Talia Hale_ , author and advocate?

Too trusting because of Peter?

Then again, Lydia wasn’t always right, either— _mostly_ always, sure, but there was at least a fractional margin for error. Stiles hadn’t felt these doubts until after she’d cornered him with her concerns. Lydia wouldn’t lie to him, but she was protective, and she was hellishly stubborn when she thought she knew what was best.

The worst part about this entire fucking mess was the doubt, wriggling and clawing its way into his softest, weakest places. His skin felt too tight, hot and aching; he couldn’t grasp a single thought with absolute certainty. Doubting Talia and himself, doubting Peter and _Lydia_ — Stiles couldn’t shake it.

He needed to breathe. His heart was racing, the world was going dark at the edges, and he could feel the first stirrings of a full-blown panic attack. He _needed to breathe_ , goddamn it.

Pulling the cord to raise his blinds, Stiles yanked open the window with trembling hands, and let himself drop to his knees on the carpet, sucking in deep gulps of fresh air.

 

* * *

 

> **To Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Hey what u doing for lunch_
> 
> **From Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Y_
> 
> **To Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Bc I keep a detailed journal dedicated to ur life_
> 
> _I call it the daily douche as a working title_
> 
> _Gonna try to adapt a screenplay one day n make a mint_
> 
> **From Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _You know I’d sue your ass for royalties_
> 
> _Now get to the point wtf do you want_
> 
> **To Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _I’m in the neighbourhood u dick_
> 
> _U want gross burritos or healthy panera_
> 
> **From Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Burritos_
> 
> _Extra guac or so help me god_
> 
> **To Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Yeah yeah_
> 
> _Ur intense avocado lust is frankly disturbing but not news_
> 
> _B there in 20_

 

* * *

 

“Don’t talk.” Jackson snatched the paper bag out of Stiles’ hand, stalking back around to sit at his glossy chrome and glass desk. Stiles made an annoyed noise, shutting the office door behind himself.

“Hey, _rude_ , asshole—”

Jackson shushed him again, with fewer words and more growling this time. He pulled a thick bundle of silver foil out of the bag, then peeled off the top third of the wrapper before closing his eyes and inhaling a deep sniff.

“Sit,” Jackson said, waving blindly at the pair of leather chairs on the guest side of the desk. “Let me enjoy this before you ruin my lunch with your inane crap.”

“You’re such an ungrateful piece of shit.” Flopping into the chair with the small scuff on the back, which he knew from experience was the squishier of the pair, Stiles reached out and dragged the bag close enough to grab some of his own lunch. “I should’ve gone to Panera and got you tuna salad. With pickles, all diced up fine so you can’t even pick ‘em off.”

“Shut the fuck up and eat, Stilinski.”

“Stop talking with your mouth full, you animal; it’s disgusting. Were you raised by wolves?”

They ate in relative silence for a few minutes, cracking open drinks from the mini fridge in the corner of the office. They’d mowed through an entire burrito each, with only a few wordless grunts of communication as necessary, before Stiles couldn’t bear to stay quiet anymore.

“So, theoretically,” he started to say, ignoring Jackson’s pained groan around a mouthful of his second burrito. “If an unaffiliated person, a free agent, got invited to spend the Wolf Moon with somebody, with a Pack at a big Pack thing, would it necessarily have to be a big deal? Is it even a deal at all, really? Or could it be sort of a casual, get-to-know-you sort of a gig? It could be like a normal friendly barbecue, just a little furrier, right?”

“Which one of them invited you?” The question was impressively emphatic, considering it was barely comprehensible, hidden behind Jackson’s hand and muffled by masticated beans and beef.

“Hey now, nobody said anything about me. We’re totally theoretical here, remember—”

“Stiles.” Jackson set his lunch down, wiping his hands and mouth with one of the paper napkins. His tone was sharp, snapping every word. “Just answer the damn question. Which one of the Hales invited you?”

“Fine, Jesus. Talia called me this morning, okay?” Immediately, the tension visibly melted from Jackson’s posture, as if someone pulled his cork and let the air out. Stiles had no idea why he found that so annoying, but he could feel his hackles rising. “Why? What, you thought Peter asked me? What difference would that make?”

“A big difference.” Jackson took a drink of his soda, then motioned vaguely with the can. “And relax, for fucksake. I couldn’t care less who you’re screwing, and if I recall correctly, you’re fractionally less annoying when you’re getting laid. It’s been such a long time, though, I could be remembering wrong.”

“My presence is a joy and a gift, and easily one of the highlights of your life,” Stiles said, but he did actually calm somewhat. The fact that Jackson wasn’t going to give him shit about Peter was almost reassuring, in a weird way that really didn’t bear closer examination. “Regardless of my sexual situation. A situation which is fine, by the way, and perfectly satisfying, and not even remotely relevant to the conversation at hand. Now, explain this _big difference_.”

“I’m not your personal werewolf wiki, dickhead.” Stiles waited, knowing that Jackson needed to make a show of the huff and puff, before he’d deign to be helpful. “It doesn’t exactly take an enormous leap in logic to figure this out. You get invited to Wolf Moon celebrations by a local Alpha, that’s a Pack thing. You get invited by the wolf trying to get in your pants? That’s something entirely different, and would have had more serious implications— like, I don’t know, a meeting the parents type thing. But bigger than that. Is this somehow a complicated concept for you? Really?”

“Are you this condescending in court?” Stiles waved one hand dismissively before Jackson could answer. “Rhetorical question. Of course you are.”

Jackson flashed a smile, smoothly charming and entirely fake, before biting into his lunch again.

Stiles took a breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Jackson seemed completely appeased, now that Talia’s invitation had been clarified— invited by a local Alpha. A _Pack thing_. That wasn’t exactly what Stiles had been hoping to hear.

“What the hell did you mean when you got Lydia all fired up about Talia Hale getting _familiar_ with me?” He forcefully resisted the urge to bounce his knee. Staying still, keeping himself from fidgeting out of his own skin, was becoming increasingly difficult. “Oh, and thanks for that, by the way. And _special_ thanks for the heads up that she was going to ambush me about it.”

“It means exactly what it sounds like,” Jackson said, immensely unhelpful. “And I told her to stay out of it.”

“Oh, you did? You waved some ridiculous red flag in front of Lydia Martin, one of the most magnificent and least tractable humans beings on the face of the earth, then _told her_ to stay out of it. Which, of course, was literally the worst thing you could’ve done, but whatever.”

Bracing his hands on the arms of his chair, Stiles shifted, leaning forward. “Okay, riddle me this, wolfboy who cried wolf: while you were busy making mountains out of molehills and marriage proposals out of freaking _hugs_ , what precisely did you imagine was going on with Talia?”

“I didn’t _imagine_ anything.” There was the faintest ring of gold simmering in Jackson’s narrowed eyes. His face was pinched, forehead screwed up and mouth thinning with that concerned look that probably meant he could hear Stiles’ heart rabbiting like crazy. “She was all over you, and I could tell you weren’t seeing it. How that’s possible, I have no goddamn idea, but I stopped being surprised by your ability to overlook the painfully obvious years ago.”

“So she’s friendly—”

“She’s an _Alpha_ , Stiles.” Jackson cocked his head suddenly, listening and staring at some spot behind Stiles’ shoulder, then snapped back to focus on the conversation before Stiles could ask what the hell he was doing.

“I told Lydia to stay out of it,” he continued, pitching his voice slightly lower than usual, as though they were sharing a secret. The shift to a clandestine sort of mood, even with the door closed, wasn’t exactly calming to Stiles’ nerves. “Because it’s nothing to worry about. Alpha Hale might want you in her Pack, but there’s no obligation, formal or otherwise. Word of advice, though: if she asks, and you decide to turn her down, you might want to try to be slightly less vicious about it than usual.”

“Vicious, really?” Stiles made a frustrated noise, collapsing back to sprawl in his chair again. “I get pissed when people get pushy, okay? It’s not my fault that a good seventy, eighty percent of the shifters who’ve brought it up didn’t know how to take a simple _no_ for an answer.”

“Sure. Or you’re just so ridiculously thin-skinned about the idea that you snap first and worry about the fallout after.”

“Fuck off.”

“You treat Packs like they’re the fucking mob, you know,” Jackson carried on, as if Stiles hadn’t said a word. “Which, when you’re talking about those nutjob hermits in Washington, is probably fair, but most Packs? Aren’t nearly that insular, or that insane.”

“I _know_ that—” Stiles started to say, only to be interrupted again.

“No, you don’t,” Jackson said. “You might think you do, but it’s obvious you don’t believe it. You’ve got a lot of weird hangups about this shit, and one day you might actually have to deal with them. But not today, and definitely not in my office. Get a good therapist.”

Stiles’ mouth worked silently for a few beats; he had no idea where to even start. “What are you… Dude, where the hell is this coming from?”

“You’re human.” Rolling up his empty burrito wrapper, Jackson tossed the foil ball back into the bag. “Pack bonds are theory to you, but they’re actual, tangible reality for wolves, and guess what? They’re not some formal blood oath, ritualized bullshit, or whatever the hell. You can be brought into a Pack, sure, but bonds just happen.” Jackson snapped his fingers to emphasize the last word. “If you’re going to get cosy with the Hales— especially if you’re cosy enough to get your dick wet— you’re going to have to deal with that. Acknowledge it, at least.”

This felt like some kind of hidden camera thing, but Jackson had just inhaled two burritos, laying into the food with his usual pre-full-moon voracity. He’d taken bites big enough to give him chubby chipmunk cheeks, and he had chili sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth. No way in hell would he be caught dead eating on film like that.

“Jax,” Stiles said, carefully. “I’m honestly lost here, bro.”

“That’s a shock. Pull your head out of your ass, and maybe you’ll figure it out. But, like I said, elsewhere.” Jackson pointed toward the door, but before Stiles could get too annoyed about being kicked out, to say nothing of the absurd bullshit that had been spewed out between them, there was a knock.

“No rest for the wickedly handsome and successful,” Jackson said, spreading his hand with a mocking flourish. “I’ve got a one o’clock meeting, so do me a favour and take your inevitable mental breakdown anywhere but here.”

Determined to be the bigger person in the face of whatever had just happened, Stiles channelled some inner mature adult and didn’t complain too much as he got up and left. He also didn’t mention the sauce on Jackson’s face.

 

* * *

 

> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Hey so what crawled up ur hubbie’s ass and died??_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _What do you mean?_
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Idk we just had lunch. He was weird_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _He was fine this morning. Maybe the moon is bothering him more than usual?_
> 
> _Weird how?_
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Weird weird idk_
> 
> _I’m not saying it’s def rabies but if u need to pull an old yeller u know where to find me_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Stiles “weird weird” isn’t clarification. It’s repetition._
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Ehhhh contrastive focus reduplication really_
> 
> _Nothing wrong w some lexical cloning between friends_
> 
> _Right GSI Martin???_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _You’re such an ass._
> 
> _You’re also not wriggling out of this conversation. I’m calling you._

 

* * *

 

“Explain,” Lydia said, the second the call connected. Stiles sighed, pressing back against the headrest of his seat. He’d given in to the immediate urge to text her, the minute his feet hit the sidewalk outside Jackson’s office. Now he was stuck, sitting in his car with Lydia in his ear; he hadn’t even left the freaking parking lot.

“Do you think I’m weird about Packs?” Stiles drummed one hand against the steering wheel, rapidly and without any discernible rhythm. “Am I thin-skinned? I’m not _thin-skinned_. Am I?”

“Oh lord.” There was a sigh, gusty and clearly audible, from Lydia’s end of the call. “He actually brought it up. And here I thought I was going to have to lock you two in a room together.”

Stiles pulled the phone away, staring at it for a few long seconds before he was prepared to address that bit of information.

“What,” he said finally, flatly.

“Stiles, you know I love you.” That sentence had never been the herald of good things, in Stiles’ experience. “But you’re very thin-skinned, and stubborn as hell. It probably wasn’t a pleasant conversation, granted, but it’s one you and Jackson desperately needed to have. Did you actually listen to him, or did you get in a huff and storm out?”

“I don’t—” Was he dreaming? Did he hit his head? Stiles hadn’t felt so profoundly out of the loop in a very long time. “He had a meeting and kicked me out. Now, what the holy hell are you talking about? What conversation? I came by to ask him some stuff about the Wolf Moon, and he jumped down my throat about _having weird hangups_ about Packs, and that I needed to get over myself. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Jackson,” Lydia hissed under her breath, and Stiles tamped down a rush of hot irritation, keeping his voice level.

“Lydia, have you two been talking about me behind my back?”

“Of course we have. You’re our friend, and we worry about you.” There was a beat of silence, then: “You’re Pack, Stiles, whether you like it or not.”

“I’m _what_? No, no, we had this conversation before. We buried this conversation, six feet under, after the twins were born. Burned, buried, salted the earth. This conversation is over and done, and _not happening_ —”

“Thin-skinned,” Lydia said, cutting him off at the knees. “And I’m not talking about the Whittemores. _Our_ Pack— you, me, Jackson, the babies. My mother. Your father and Melissa. You and I can’t feel it the same way Jackson can, but that doesn’t make it any less true. We’re Pack in all the ways that matter, Stiles.”

_Pack bonds are theory to you._

“Oh my god.”

“Stiles, sweetie, you need to breathe.” That might be true, but more importantly, he needed to clear up a few misapprehensions.

“Pack bonds don’t work like that,” he said, even if he had Jackson’s voice whispering something different in the back of his mind. _Bonds just happen._ “Not legit bonds, anyway. They’re just, I don’t know, _baby_ bonds. It’s the way relationships work for shifters, pack-oriented— cliques at school, coworkers, friends, all that shit. But it’s not a _real_ Pack.”

“I don’t think either of us is in a position to argue what is or isn’t a real Pack. Or did you sprout fur and fangs when I wasn’t paying attention?”

Stiles opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Frustration made his jaw work, his teeth bared in a grimace, but he didn’t have an answer even remotely prepared before Lydia started to speak again.

“When my husband,” she said. “Tells me we’re a Pack, I believe him. I might not feel it the exact way he does, but I feel something. We’re family, all of us. It’s not that much of a stretch to call it by another name, too.”

 

* * *

 

> **To Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Hey asshole_
> 
> _After u guys get back from ur wolf moon shindig in sactown we’re all going out_
> 
> **From Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Are we_
> 
> **To Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Indeed we r my fine furry friend_
> 
> _Burgers and bowling w the kids_
> 
> _Ur treat_
> 
> **From Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Y the hell would I do that_
> 
> **To Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _U know team stilinski always brings the party_
> 
> _Call it pack bonding_
> 
> _Or family bonding_
> 
> _Either works_
> 
> **From Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Fucksake_
> 
> _Fine._
> 
> **To Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Yaaaaaay :D_
> 
> **From Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _So are you spending the moon w the Hales or what_
> 
> _Stiles_
> 
> _????_
> 
> **To Wolfman Jack:**
> 
> _Idk man I’m thinking about it_
> 
> _One panic attack at a time plz_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Stiles' POV and Jackson's emotional constipation, I hope I still managed to make it clear enough that Jackson's been stewing with some hurt feelings for a while when it comes to Stiles' vehement, vocal dismissal of Packs. Also, Stiles isn't 100% comfortable with the idea yet, not totally sold, but he's going to make an effort.


	16. Wolf Moon: Good Morning, Sweetheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note the change in rating.** We’re almost definitely going to bump up to explicit before the story’s finished.
> 
> Also, in this chapter there are mentions of blood (in sexual and non-sexual contexts), a mention of knotting, and a character makes a tiny, joking reference to suicide.

On Thursday morning, Peter woke up late, revelling in the absence of his alarm buzzing in his ears. A guaranteed day off to rest and recoup after every full moon was certainly a perk of working at a blended school. Not every job was willing to make that concession to werewolf nature. The Wolf Moon was a special case, however: two full days off, the day of the moon and the day after, and that meant an extra long weekend this year. Fáelán was closed from Thursday until Monday, for all students and staff.

Currently, it was just past eight o’clock, but that was still two hours later than Peter’s usual weekday routine. He might have stayed lazing around his obscenely comfortable bed for a while longer, if not for the the hunger gnawing at him, and the itch under his skin.

Rolling over onto his back resulted in an unhappy cat. Hobbes burbled in annoyance, utterly galled about being kicked out of the warm cradle he’d made for himself, curled up behind Peter’s knees.

“Yeah, yeah. Sleep in your own damn bed if you don’t like it.” Peter reached his arms above his head, fingers curling loosely against the plush upholstery of his headboard, and gradually started stretching the stiffness from his muscles. The blankets— Sferra sheets and a goose down duvet, in shades of dove grey, navy, and muted steel blue— inched down his chest, and fine cotton slid against his bare skin almost as smoothly as silk. The pull of the moon was already making him more tactile, more sensual; he'd be more impulsive, too, even if he refused to act on most of it. He could acknowledge the natural rise in his baser needs without giving himself over to them completely.

Some wolves, usually those who’d been bitten but even some born, talked about _wolf and human sides_ as if they were separate things. Peter had never felt any disconnect in his own nature, and honestly didn’t understand the dichotomy. It sounded like a hell of an unstable way to live.

Maybe it felt different for bitten wolves, who’d lived some of their lives as humans, but his instincts weren’t somehow separate from his logical mind. There was no slavering beast lurking in the back of his brain. He wasn’t two creatures sharing a body; he was completely himself and completely a werewolf.

At the moment, he was a creature of very uncomplicated urges: he wanted a long shower, and quick breakfast. He also wanted the hot iron of blood flooding his mouth and a hard fuck, which weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive desires.

Considering his schedule for the next twenty-four hours or so, Peter decided to embrace the first two, hope for the third, and tamp down the last one. He didn't have to be at work, but a visit to the Hale homestead was another matter entirely. If he wasn’t on scene and pulling his weight by noon, he fully expected a call. If he was any tardier than that, someone would be sent to drag him out to the Preserve. Bethany, if he was lucky.

It was still early enough that there wasn’t any great rush to get moving, though, which meant the half-hard swell of his dick didn’t need to be ignored. Wallowing in a few of those baser needs was half the fun of a full moon, when his senses were deliciously heightened.

Kicking the blankets down enough to bare himself to the knees made Hobbes grumble again, but thankfully, the cat decided he’d had more than enough of Peter’s wriggling. With an annoyed lash of his tail, he hopped off the edge of the mattress and stalked away to sulk elsewhere.

Peter settled back and laid one hand over his stomach. He started rubbing slow circles that crept lower with each pass, scratching through the trail of hair that started at his navel. Every drag of his nails sent a shiver of pleasure through his nerves, and he’d hardened up nicely by the time he finally curled his fingers loosely around the base of his cock. There was something immensely satisfying about coaxing himself like this, still pliant and warm from sleep, as the promise of the moon simmered under his tingling skin. Patience was rarely something he struggled with, not even on a full moon, and not even when he was only teasing himself.

Stiles didn’t seem like a particularly patient man, however, with his restless gestures and rapid fire, painfully truncated style of texting. Peter had some very promising ideas about teaching Stiles the rewards of patience, but that could wait for another time. He tightened his grip and gave his dick a few firm strokes, quicker than his usual tempo.

Stiles had large hands, with broad palms and long, elegant fingers. Slightly rough to the touch, with calluses that werewolf healing would never have allowed to form. Likely nimble and dexterous from years of typing, gaming, and fidgeting with anything not nailed down.

Twisting his wrist on the upstroke, Peter dragged his thumb over the head of his dick where it peeked out of his foreskin, slick and slippery. He was leaking already, and the muscles in his thigh jumped under the bite of his nails as he scratched upward with his free hand. He was more keyed up than he’d expected from lazy morning masturbation, but between the moon and the thought of a longer, rougher hand wrapped around his dick, he felt particularly motivated.

Yes, Stiles had excellent hands, and gorgeous, plush lips that would look so damn good, stretched pink and sinful while Peter fucked his mouth.

“Yeah.” Peter’s voice was jarringly loud in the empty apartment, as the shift in his fantasy hit him low in the gut, coiling with heat. His breaths huffed, thick and raspy, and his teeth were sharpening without any conscious effort, slurring his words. He didn’t give a shit about any of it, too busy thrusting up into his fist, imagining wet, perfect suction and the curl of a clever tongue. “Yeah, _fuck_ , c’mon.”

He remembered the taste of sugary coffee and the pretty little whines he’d coaxed out of Stiles with only a few kisses. The way Stiles had clutched at him, demanding, trying to force them closer in the middle of a public parking lot. The greedy press of his lean body, contradicting and complimenting the soft, pliable slide of his mouth, drinking in everything Peter offered.

He’d probably take it so sweetly, when Peter finally had him pinned down. Probably grind against any part of Peter he could reach, shameless for it. Begging between every breathless, broken moan as Peter slowly and meticulously took him apart.

He wanted Stiles sweat-slick and trembling under him, with those big brown eyes blown dark and his beautiful lips bruised and bitten. He wanted to split Stiles open, raw and tender and _ruined_.

It only took a few more strokes, striping his hand over his dick with hard, sloppy pulls, before Peter was coming, hissing Stiles’ name through his fangs and jerking a mess of cum all over his heaving stomach. There was a stinging itch at the base of his cock, a tightness that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it was unfulfilled, almost burning. If he’d drawn things out a bit more, kept the fantasy playing a little longer, he probably would’ve popped a knot without meaning to.

That wasn’t something he could brush off, or blame on the moon; a full moon made him hungry for many things, but it wouldn’t fray his control like this. Maybe he should have been more worried about that, but he couldn’t quite muster up more than mild, curious concern.

His thoughts hadn’t taken a turn into dangerously feral territory, which was reassuring. He’d pictured the pale column of Stiles’ throat arched back for him, open and vulnerable, blooming with ruddy bruises under his teeth, but nothing more violent than a few hickies. His fangs had dropped unintentionally, but he’d still wanted to eat Stiles out, not literally eat him.

It was all fine; he’d just gotten a bit caught up. It might have been a fluke, or the herald of something more serious, but either way, overreacting about it wasn’t going to help anything.

He rolled out of bed, feeling lush with post-orgasmic calm, and grabbed his cell from the charging dock on his bedside table. He stretched, revelling in the sweet looseness of his muscles, rolling his shoulders as he ambled to the bathroom, naked and still splattered with his own cum.

Peter started the shower, then took a moment to check the colour of his eyes, but as usual there wasn’t even the barest trace of red bleeding into the blue. No sudden rush of _Alpha_ to explain the wayward spike of his shift. Everything felt normal.

Well, he actually felt better than normal, buzzing on endorphins and hormones, but a good orgasm tended to have that effect.

He rubbed his palm over his jaw, testing the roughness of his stubble before the mirror fogged up too much. He was due for a shave, but the effort could wait until after the moon. Tapping out a quick text— a simple _good morning sweetheart_ — he sent it off to Stiles in what was quickly becoming a habit.

Very briefly, he considered sending a photo along with the message: just a shot of his sticky abs, maybe, to show Stiles what he’d inspired. It was tempting, but also an incredibly bad idea. Peter wasn’t opposed to adding filthy photos to the roster of their increasingly comfortable communication, eventually, but they weren’t there yet.

At least he could still recognise the sort of rash impulses the moon actually did stir up in his blood.

The water pressure was punishingly good when he stepped under the spray, and he let it beat down on his shoulders and neck for a minute or two before he even reached for the shampoo. He had his head tipped back, rinsing out the lather, when he heard his phone chime, audible even through the rushing water and the shower curtain.

By the time Peter was done, stepping back out onto the bathmat, he’d listened to seven more texts arrive. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and a toothbrush in his mouth before he picked up the phone to check the messages.

As he’d expected, the lion’s share of the texts were from Stiles.

> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Ugggh morning_
> 
> _Got the slowest coffee maker on the planet what have I done to deserve this torment_
> 
> _Too much blood in my caffeine system this is terrible_
> 
> _Anyway happy wolf moon cujo_
> 
> _Is that a thing?? A thing ppl say? Happy wolf moon?_
> 
> _Did u fall asleep again???_
> 
> _When u wake up or whatever will u call me? Wanna ask u something_

There was also one message from Talia. Obviously she’d decided to get an early start on pestering him.

> **From Tally:**
> 
> _What time are you coming to the house? Will you pick up a few more bags of marshmallows and that spicy mustard mom likes on your way?_

Scrubbing his teeth, Peter typed out a response with one thumb, telling her he’d probably be there around noon, and asking how many bags she wanted. He didn’t bother snarking at all. He had hours of Talia’s company to look forward to, and as fun as riling her up could be, at the moment he was already in a very good mood and curious about what Stiles wanted to ask him.

> **From Tally:**
> 
> _2 bags of normal size for s’mores and 3 mini for hot chocolate. Thanks Peter_

After finishing up in the bathroom, Peter pulled on a clean pair of pyjama pants and headed for the kitchen, where Hobbes was perched primly on a barstool. The cat immediately started to yowl, reaching out with one paw and batting it in Peter’s direction.

“So dramatic.” Grabbing a tin of wet food from the cupboard, Peter dumped a serving of fishy pâté into a steel bowl. “This is why that miserable old bat thinks I starve you.”

The minute the cat food was opened, Hobbes abandoned his seat in favour of winding around Peter’s ankles, meowing and headbutting Peter’s calves. Experience was worth even more than werewolf reflexes when trying to avoid tripping over the demanding little beast, and Peter managed to set the bowl down on its rubber mat without any mishaps. Hobbes, for all his theatrics, still paused long enough to give the food a sceptical sniff before digging in.

Peter washed his hands and refreshed the cat’s water, then picked up his cell and dialled Stiles’ number as he considered the contents of his fridge. The call rang three times before Stiles picked up, with a _yeah, hi, hello_ that sounded distinctly harried.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Peter set a carton of eggs on the counter, nudging the fridge closed with his hip. “Sounds like someone’s still waiting on that coffee.”

“Dear god, no,” Stiles said, mostly under his breath, and Peter was treated to a wet slurp in his ear. “But that was brutal. It was cruel and unusual. I’m considering mainlining the rest of the pot. Would that be wrong?”

“Probably.” Pinching the phone between his ear and shoulder, Peter started assembling everything he needed for an obscene amount of scrambled eggs. “But hey, don’t take my word for it. Werewolf metabolism means caffeine’s a bust— I only drink coffee for the taste.”

“That’s… wow. So tragic. Hang on a sec.” There were other voices murmuring in the background of the call, and Stiles’ attention shifted to address them. “All done, peanuts? Cool, great job. Go on and wash your hands, then you can watch cartoons for an hour, okay? Scotty boy, c’mere, let me get that syrup off your eyebrow— or we could do that. Thanks, princess.”

Peter dropped a bagel into the toaster, listening to a few minutes of the Stilinskis puttering through their morning routine. He was stuck juggling the phone and his own breakfast, while being largely ignored, so it was understandably startling to realise he was actually _smiling_.

“My daughter licked maple syrup off her brother’s forehead,” Stiles said, returning to their conversation as the chatter and laughter of children faded from the background. “I almost wish that felt like a weirder sentence. Anyway, what’s up, Cujo? I’m not interrupting something wolfy and moon-wild, am I? Anything fun?”

It was absolutely ridiculous, and Peter had no idea why he was still smiling.

“Just having breakfast,” he said, giving the eggs a stir. “A couple pounds of raw chuck roast and a rabbit I grabbed on my morning run.”

“Oh yeah? I bet all the fluffy bunnies of Beacon Hills live in constant terror of what big teeth you have.”

“Well, none of the joggers looked appetizing, so I made do.”

“Hm, sounds yummy.” There was a rustling, and then Stiles was mumbling around a mouthful of food. “But nothing compared to the world class pancakes at Casa Stilinski. I am a pancake god, and should be worshipped. Just saying.”

“What a coincidence.” Scraping the mound of eggs onto a plate, Peter grabbed his hot bagel and the jar of peanut butter on the way over to sit. “It just so happens, I already spent the better part of this morning thinking about a few ways I might _worship_ you until you sobbed. Did you know I look gorgeous on my knees?”

Stiles’ coughed, choking on his breakfast.

“Ugh, hell—” He wheezed between words, then cleared his throat. “Asshole. I think I’ve got pancake in my lung now. Is this just your run of the mill obscene phone call at nine-thirty in the freaking morning, or are you actually trying to kill me? Perv me to death?”

“Never. You’re far too much fun,” Peter assured him, digging into his own food with moon-fueled zeal. “And this was your idea, sweetheart. You wanted to ask me something, remember?”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Stiles cleared his throat again, sharper this time. “Uh, one sec. I’m taking you out on the back porch.”

Humming around his breakfast, Peter waited. The wary tension that was sneaking into Stiles’ voice piqued his curiosity even more than it had been, but not in any pleasant way.

“There,” Stiles said, after Peter heard the thud of a door closing. “The illusion of privacy. So, I wanted to run something by you, okay? But whatever your answer is, I need you to know that I’m cool with it, either way. Yes or no, I swear it’s not going to be weird, or hurt my feelings, or whatever. Okay?”

“Alright.” Peter sat back on his stool, fork hovering over his plate. “This is a strong start, by the way. Really putting me at ease.”

“It’s nothing bad!” The words, blurted out and panicky, weren’t especially reassuring. “Shit, no, it’s not— it’s nothing bad. It’s… Talia sort of invited me and the kids over to her place for the Wolf Moon?”

Peter’s lip curled, baring his teeth. At least he was mindful enough to keep them clamped, stifling the snarl threatening to rasp up from the back of his throat. He leashed it into a softer sound instead, more inquiry than annoyance, and let Stiles carry on.

“And I wasn’t sure if I was going to go or not,” Stiles said. “I mean, Lia’s always pretty good, but she’s never been away from home on a full moon, you know? Then I sort of thought, maybe we’d give it a try, probably not for the whole night, but the barbecue and stuff this afternoon… yeah. It’s not— Talia invited us, so it’s not a _you-and-me_ thing, but I figured waltzing in without talking to you first would be weird. I haven’t mentioned a word to the kids, so if you’re not cool with us barging in on family time, don’t even worry about it. Seriously.”

Taking a breath, Peter glanced at his mangled fork. The stainless steel handle was bent into a vee around the pad of his thumb, where he’d been clenching his hand too hard.

“Okay, you’re being really quiet,” Stiles continued, after the briefest pause. “You’re not cool with it. It’s too fast, it’s too much like a _meet the family_ thing, and we’ve been on one date. Fuck, I knew, I knew this was weird. I’m an idiot. It’s cool. It’s totally cool. You don’t even have to say anything—”

“Stiles.” Peter set the fork down, resigning himself to half a plate of cold, rubbery eggs once this conversation was over. “Calm down.”

This situation needed to be handled delicately, but decisively, if he was going to successfully swing it to his advantage.

“It doesn’t have to be weird,” he said, with complete sincerity. He wasn’t going to allow it to be weird for them, no matter what the hell Talia was playing at. “My nieces and nephew really like your kids, and I think that’s mutual, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Stiles breathed out a weak little laugh. “Seems like a Stilinski thing. Getting lured in by that Hale charm must run in the family.”

“It’s our animal magnetism. Gets them every time.” This time, Stiles’ laughter was more genuine, and Peter counted that as a win. “Listen, if you want to come out to the house today, sweetheart, feel free. It doesn’t bother me. In fact, I’m already entirely convinced you’ll be the best company there.”

“Smooth, Cujo. Very smooth.”

“I do try.”

 

* * *

 

If Talia hadn’t asked for that goddamn mustard, specifically for their mother, chances were good that making a stop at the store would have intentionally slipped Peter’s mind. Bringing the mustard but conveniently forgetting the marshmallows would have been sloppy and obvious.

The kitchen, unlike the rest of the Hale house, was deserted. Packed to the brim with food preparation, of course, but the Pack and any other guests had apparently decided to congregate elsewhere. Or more likely, Brendan had laid out a clear _do-not-disturb_ policy to keep people from getting underfoot in his little culinary kingdom disaster zone, and that policy was being honoured even while he was outside on the deck, working the grills.

“There’s my boy.” Setting the bag of groceries on one of the few bare spots left on the crowded kitchen counter, Peter mentally braced himself, then turned around with a warm, toothy smile. He hadn’t heard anyone coming up behind him, and that was always unsettling.

“Hi, Mom.” It’d been over six months since he’d seen his mother, but it seemed the South American vacation had treated her well. She looked refreshed from her time away, easing the lines in her face.

No matter how long she’d spent trekking under the Brazilian sun, werewolves couldn’t really maintain a tan. She and Talia shared the same naturally bronzed complexion, however, even if they couldn’t build up a deeper sunkissed glow like a human, and both Talia and Beth had their mother’s dark hair and eyes. The black, shoe-polish shine of her long, wavy hair was a very good dye job: a well-maintained vanity since the first hints of silver had started threading through her temples when Peter had still been in high school.

In grey pants and a flowing blouse of jewel toned paisley, still radiating the Alpha power she hadn’t wielded in over a decade, Bryony Hale was a picture of mature, vibrant elegance. She held out both hands, clicking her fingers at him.

“Well? Come here, pup.” His mother wasn’t a tall woman by any standard, standing only an inch or two more than five feet, even shorter than Bethany. Talia had inherited her height from their father, while Peter had gotten his eyes.

He let his mother wrap a hand around his nape, bending when she pulled him down to kiss his cheek and scent his neck. He’d seen her bring giants to their knees— wolves three times her size, torn bloody, broken, and begging for mercy. She was sixty-eight years old, an aging former Alpha, but there was unmistakable strength in her grip and steel in her eyes, neither of which Peter had any intention of testing.

“You look lovely,” he said, scenting her carefully. Having her teeth so close to his throat made him tense, but he didn’t bother hiding his reaction. It wasn’t as if she was going to be insulted; he’d learned the wisdom of caution and the consequences of misplaced trust from her, after all.

“And you look like you live under a bridge.” She pinched his chin, hard, and leaned back to study the stubble he hadn’t shaved. “Hm. Makes you look old. But it’s not quite as bad as that haircut of your sister’s.” Peter didn’t ask which sister she meant. He’d already seen Beth when he’d sneaked quietly into the house; she’d caught his eye from amid the cluster of relatives and Hale Pack clogging up the living room, and subtly mimed shooting herself in the head. Marin’s calming presence was nowhere to be seen or smelled, but that wasn’t surprising. It was Wolf Moon, and she had her own Pack to attend.

A terminal lack of tact— which Peter knew had always been a conscious decision, rather than any kind of social awkwardness— was one of a myriad of reasons his mother had been _encouraged_ to risk the dangerous rituals that had been necessary to give up her Alpha status. Bryony was one of the Old Guard: the sort of Alpha who’d earned and kept her position with bloodied claws and intimidation, as much if not more than she’d depended on negotiations and Pack treaties. The Anagnorisis, and all the politicking and public scrutiny that came along with it, had not been kind to her way of thinking.

While Peter might not always agree with Talia, he also recognised the sort of disaster that would have developed if their mother had stayed Hale Alpha any longer than she did. There wasn’t any doubt that Bryony had been a strong leader, and a loud, powerful voice among the Packs during the first, unstable decade after the reveal, but she didn’t have the temperament for the type of delicate diplomatic maneuvering that Talia lived and breathed. Not with humans, at any rate; werewolf diplomacy could get much bloodier, long before anything was permanently damaged except pride, and those were the types of discussions at which his mother had always excelled.

“I brought wine,” he said, waving toward the counter. “Two bottles of that godawful petite sirah you like. The one that’s basically fruity motor oil.”

His mother smiled like she did most things: boldly, and with an undercurrent that was too sharp to be mistaken for politeness.

“Such a sweet boy.” Her arm looped around his elbow, keeping him tethered. Then, in a flash, her expression hardened. “Oh hell, is this a bribe? Your father isn’t going to show up, is he?”

It was sort of a bribe, but also an attempt at a distraction, however unlikely to succeed it might be. Stiles and his kids were going to appear sometime within the next couple of hours, integrating into the Pack as guests, and Peter had absolutely no shame about doing whatever he could to ease the process. Even if that meant getting his mother just buzzed enough on terrible wine and wolfsbane, so she might spend most of the afternoon napping and telling inappropriately gruesome stories to the pups, instead of grilling him about his vested interest in a certain human.

But the wine definitely _wasn’t_ anything to do with his father. Peter hadn’t spoken to the man in at least five years, just shortly before his parents’ divorce.

“Mom, if he does, I’ll be just as surprised as you.” And he’d have a number of choice words for Talia, too. Some very unkind, downright insubordinate words. “He’s still in L.A., as far as I know.”

“Good,” Bryony said. “They can keep him. Now, _wine_ , then you’re coming back outside with me.” Peter arched his brows, playing mildly defiant for appearances’ sake.

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes, my darling boy, you are.” The act didn’t last long; he didn’t resist when she pulled him along, snagging the bottles as they passed. “I’m tired of these overgrown pups yipping at me already, and I want to hear all about the human they all tell me you’re sniffing around.”

 _Shit_.

“Derek says he saw you _share your sucker_ with this Stiles person,” Bryony carried on, with a sly curl of her mouth. “Which I assume isn’t the sort of euphemism it sounds like, since the pup doesn’t seem overly traumatized. Still, it’s got me very curious.”

Well, that settled it. Peter was definitely going to murder someone before the end of the night.

 

* * *

 

> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _My mother is here._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Ok_
> 
> _Is that a surprise??? It’s like a big wolfy family reunion thing right?_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _She’s been abroad. I knew there was a chance she’d come home for the moon but I honestly wasn’t 100% convinced she’d show up until I saw her._
> 
> _If you want to back out of this, now would be a good time. Before she gets your scent._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Hey whoa what_
> 
> _Peter u said it was cool man_
> 
> _I already told the kids. They’re upstairs getting their shit together_
> 
> _Do u not want me to meet ur mom_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _I didn’t mean it like that, sweetheart. I want to see you today._
> 
> _I’m just giving you a heads up. My mother can be overwhelming._
> 
> _To be honest I don’t want her to scare you off._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Srsly cujo_
> 
> _Ur creepy stalker vibe and smug fucking attitude didn’t scare me off_
> 
> _Spoiler alert! I sorta get off on ur brand of weirdness which is super messed up but I’m dealing w it_
> 
> _I’m the one who should b freaking out here_
> 
> _U still gonna want all up on this if ur mom hates my guts?_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _I don’t remember ever giving a shit about her opinion of my private life. Not sure why I’d start now._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _U tell em babe_
> 
> _There’s the asshole I’m smooching_
> 
> _I mean_
> 
> _Wow_
> 
> _Didn’t really think that thru_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Sexting at a family BBQ, Stiles? I’m scandalized._
> 
> _Also deeply disappointed. That was pitiful._
> 
> _Why don’t you try again, and really put some effort in this time. I've got ideas if you need help getting started._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _NO_
> 
> _NO SEXTING AT FAMILY BBQ JFC NO BAD CUJO_
> 
> _Ur the worst person the actual worst_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Flattery will get you everywhere, baby._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Woooooorst_
> 
> _God what’s wrong with me? Why do I dig u???_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _If I had to guess? My looks, my brain, and my charming personality. Not necessarily in that order._
> 
> _We challenge each other intellectually, and you enjoy not having to dull any of your barbs, because you know I’m an asshole too._
> 
> _Pretty much all the same reasons I like you._
> 
> _I’d say more, but someone was very insistent about “no sexting”_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Wow_
> 
> _Sweet to perv in like 0.2 seconds_
> 
> _I’m impressed and horrified_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _You’re really just impressed. And probably turned on._
> 
> _To be clear, is that a universal ban on sexting or just in certain situations?_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Ugggggh_
> 
> _Situational ban u freakshow_
> 
> _We’ll talk about it later_
> 
> _Here come my spawn_
> 
> _U okay cujo? We still good to go?_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Yes we’re good. See you soon sweetheart._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _;)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tentative faceclaim for Bryony Hale is Sonia Braga.
> 
> If you take a peek back at Chapter 5, I’ve added a link to view the cover design of Talia’s book. You can also check it out here: [_Wolf At The Door: Post Anagnorisis American And The Widening Divide._](http://pibroch.tumblr.com/post/123927075301)


	17. Wolf Moon: Team Stilinski

“Wait for me, kiddos.” Stiles did a quick double-check that he had everything he needed, trying to juggle a warm crockpot while keeping his overexcited kids from abandoning him. The Hales’ front yard was packed with cars, and he’d had to park the Kia at the far end of the driveway. “Hold hands ‘til we get to the house. Scotty, inhaler?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Alright, peanuts, let’s boogie.” The twins darted ahead of him, vibrating with the urge to rush but keeping relatively close. The moment they’d weaved their way up to the front porch steps, there was a squeal from nearby. A small blur of red shirt and dark braids skidded around the corner of the house, and suddenly there were three kids on the ground, rolling around in a puppy pile.

Stiles shook his head at the flail of limbs and giggles. “Hi Cora.”

“Hi,” the girl said brightly, before ignoring him completely in favour of grinning at his kids. “Come play!”

“Okay, yeah, go on,” Stiles said, before he could be inundated with big pleading eyes. The kids were up and running in a split second, heading back the way Cora had come, making him holler after them. “But stay in the yard, not the woods!”

They’d already had a big sit-down talk about expected behaviour, and Stiles felt pretty confident that both Scott and Malia understood how serious he was. Still, he had every intention of following them out back to keep an eye on things, as soon as he dropped the food off in the Hales’ kitchen.

The front door opened for him before he could even knock, which he privately filed away as one more Hale habit of overly dramatic flair. It wasn’t Peter waiting on the other side, this time; instead, Stiles was faced with a petite woman, probably Talia’s age or a bit older, with dark, short-cropped hair.

She immediately and shamelessly gave him a lingering once-over, looking him up and down. Her slow-blooming, amused smile brought the word _wolfish_ to mind, and Stiles wasn’t sure whether he wanted to burst out laughing or hide behind his casserole.

“You must be Stiles.” The woman tilted her head, letting her dark eyes flicker down his chest again— he was layered up with two shirts and a hoodie, but somehow felt very exposed— before she motioned for him to enter. “Well, come on in.”

“Ah, thanks.” Stepping inside, Stiles found an empty foyer, and no other signs of life. It was somewhat creepy.

“Everyone’s out back,” the woman said, closing the door, and yeah, that made sense. Stiles took a breath, easing the anxious ball tightening in his gut. “Come on, let’s get you unloaded. Kitchen’s right through here.”

Stiles let himself be shepherded, even though he knew the way. He still remembered the basic layout of the rooms he’d explored during his first visit to the Hale house.

The spacious, rustic styled kitchen looked like the Food Network had exploded, with various ingredients at different stages of prep lining most of the countertops. When Stiles had asked how many people they were expecting, Peter had been vague. When Stiles had pressed the issue, adamantly curious, he’d eventually wheedled out an estimate somewhere around a hundred, including Pack and guests. Feeding that many, especially if most of them were shifters with full moon cravings, had to be an incredible amount of work.

“It’s so lovely to finally put a face to a name,” the woman said, while Stiles hunted for a spot to set his potluck offering. “And such an adorable face, too. I’m Bethany, but just Beth is fine.”

“Talia and Peter’s sister, right?” Stiles set the dish down, turning to face her again, and shook her hand when she offered. Her nails were short, but shaped into perfect almonds and painted glossy peach, and she was wearing several rings he recognized as celtic knotwork.

“One and the same.” Bethany gently squeezed his fingers before letting go. “Whatever you’ve heard about me from Talia was probably true, but sugarcoated, and anything Peter said can’t be proven in court, so ignore him. Is that lasagne?”

“This? Cabbage roll casserole.” Stiles tapped the glass lid of the crockpot.

She crowded in, close enough that their arms bumped together and he could smell her shampoo. Without a word, she lifted the lid off and leaned in for a sniff.

“Oh my god.” She grabbed his wrist, firmly but not worryingly hard, and looked up at him with wide, deep brown eyes. “Does that taste as good as it smells?”

“Better.” Stiles shrugged, without a hint of modesty. “Family recipe. It’s still hot, but it’ll need a spot to plug in and stay warm, if it’s not going to be served right away.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” Bethany waved her hand, pointing out several empty electrical sockets fitted into the backsplash of the countertop. “Plug it in for now, and we’ll ask Bren when he wants it; he’s dealing with the food. You all set to face the wolves?”

“Ready as I’m going to be,” Stiles said, rubbing his nape. “I’ve never done the Wolf Moon thing before. Don’t really know what I’m walking into, except theoretically, you know?”

Bethany smiled at him again, kinder this time, lopsided and closed mouthed, and looped her hand around his elbow. The hold was loose enough that he could have easily shrugged it off, but he bent his arm instead, letting her hang on. She might be human, but Bethany had been raised in a house of shifters, so the casual physicality wasn’t surprising.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, leading him out of the kitchen and back towards the mudroom, which he remembered opened out onto the Hales’ back deck. “We don’t really stand on ceremony, like some other Packs still do, so whatever you think you know? Forget it. It’s mostly just an excuse to get everyone together, eat too much, get drunk, and talk shit about family you haven’t seen all year, but to their faces instead of behind their backs. Any serious business happens further out in the woods.”

The Hales’ backyard had been transformed since the last time he’d seen it, and it was certainly busier this time around. There’d been close to two dozen kids running around the lawn at Derek’s birthday party, where now there were four times that many people clustered around numerous patio tables and chairs, and lounging on blankets spread over the grass. There were two of those big, white outdoor party tents set up, the kind with roofs but no walls, and long tables of food and drink laid out under the shelter.

Several people were hanging around on the Hales’ expansive deck too, chatting, sipping beers and cans of soda, but Stiles only recognised one of them. Talia’s husband Brendan was standing in front of a pair of huge barbecues, transferring hamburger patties from the grill to a large platter.

“Got to check on my kids,” Stiles said, partly to himself and partly to Bethany. “Cora nabbed them in the driveway.”

“With Cora, I’d start by checking the tallest trees and biggest mud puddles.” Moving to the edge of the deck, Bethany motioned toward the yard, further out where a handful of kids were playing. “Anyone look familiar?”

“Yeah.” Stiles squinted, then pointed. “Pigtails and yellow sneakers, and the denim jacket with the plaid hood. Malia and Scott.”

“They’re both yours? God, you don’t look old enough to have kids that big.” It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that, but at least Bethany didn’t sound judgemental about it. “And here I was, gearing up to give my baby brother no end of shit for robbing the cradle. You can’t be thirty, not with that face. Tell me you’re not thirty.”

“I’m twenty-six,” he said. Peter had told him to expect some comments about them seeing each other, but even with the warning, there was still that moment of weirdness, confronted with the dude’s sister. There was a difference between meeting the family while dating, and meeting the family after one date. He wasn’t really sure how he wanted to play this, and Peter had been no fucking help at all.

Ignoring the warm feeling crawling up the back of his neck, Stiles pushed on. “But I still get carded, all the time. I’m thinking about growing a beard, maybe try to work the ruggedly handsome, lumbersexual thing. And speaking of, hey, Brendan!”

At the sound of his name, Brendan lifted his head, then fixed Stiles with an easygoing grin.

“Stiles, hey, glad you could make it.” He closed the lid of the grill, hoisting the enormous platter of burgers, one-handed. “I thought I saw your pups racing around a minute ago. Talia’s here somewhere, I think—”

“She’s out checking on the ring, Bren,” Bethany said. “Said she’s got a feeling there’ll be a couple of challenges this year, and I think she’s right.”

“Aunt Beth!” They all looked over as Laura came bounding onto the deck, with grass stains on the knees of her jeans. “Hi, Mr. Stilinski. Aunt Beth, could I— I want to talk to you, please? Just for a minute, but it’s—” The girl bit her lip, and Stiles had been a dad long enough to recognise the nervousness and cautious calculation in that look. Whatever Laura was doing, she knew she wasn’t allowed.

“It’s really important, and sorta private,” Laura said finally, quietly. Bethany nodded, sharing a quick, questioning look with Brendan.

“Sure, honey.” She gave Stiles’ elbow a squeeze, without immediately pulling away. “Looks like you’re on your own for a bit, cutie. Laura, have you seen Uncle Peter around anywhere? Did he manage to escape Nana Bea’s talons?”

“I, uh, dunno.” Laura shook her head, plucking at the cuffs of her hoodie. “I think he’s sitting with Nana.”

“Well, have fun with that,” Bethany murmured, and patted Stiles’ chest before letting him go, following Laura into the house without another word of explanation. He wasn’t untethered for long, however.

“You get anything to eat yet?” Brendan’s hand was enormous, but light as a feather where it landed on Stiles’ shoulder. “C’mon and grab some chow.”

 

* * *

 

In general, Stiles was decent enough with remembering names, but there wasn’t a hope in hell that he’d keep half of these people straight. He recognised at least a few of them from around Beacon Hills, but only in passing. It didn’t help that the majority of them had some variation of what he’d started to consider _Hale looks_ : dark hair, unreasonably perfect bone structure, and intense predator stare. It was somewhat unnerving getting the full _Blue Steel_ from a nine-month-old in a floral baby sling, but pulling a couple tried and true silly faces earned him a giggle, so it wasn’t too bizarre.

Brendan had herded him over to the food, pressed a Coke into his hand after checking his drink preference, fussed over the spread for a few minutes, then left Stiles on his own. Although _on his own_ was a bit of a stretch, considering how many people were milling around, especially near the ample smorgasbord.

A little over a half hour later, Stiles was three bites into a ridiculously delicious burger, and wondering when would be the best time to call his kids over and shovel some food into them too, when the hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle with the distinct feeling of being watched. A quick glance around didn’t reveal any obvious suspects, until Stiles did nearly a full rotation, and finally spotted Peter. The dude was lurking on the other side of the food tables, piling up a paper plate; when Stiles caught his eye, he didn’t even try to pretend he hadn’t been staring holes in Stiles’ back.

They’d talked about this on the phone, earlier in the day, while the kids were hunkered down in front of the Stilinskis’ TV watching cartoons. Stiles had been pacing across the back porch of his house, barefoot, in a ratty t-shirt and sweats, soaking up Peter’s unperturbed reaction as a kind of balm for his own apprehension.

“How about we stick to friendly, to start,” Peter had said, when they broached the topic of how they planned to behave around each other at this thing. “I’ll take my cues from you, and act accordingly.”

Leaving it up to Stiles’ discretion, since he was the one with the kids to worry about. Smart kids, who already knew something was up, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be discreet about things. Still, it was different somehow, because they knew Peter already. It’s wasn’t like introducing them to some guy he’d just started dating, which would have been weird enough, considering they probably didn’t remember the last time he’d been out on a proper date.

They knew Peter. _Uncle_ Peter. They liked him. And with Fáelán in their future, they were pretty much stuck with him, whether or not Stiles or Peter managed to screw this up. _Sticking to friendly_ seemed the safest, smartest bet for everyone, at least for now.

Peter had made it very clear, over the course of their discussion, that there wouldn’t be anyone at this shindig whose judgement had any impact on his personal life. His main concern was whatever made Stiles comfortable. Which might have been a sweet and understanding sentiment, if he hadn’t then proceeded to explain that it wouldn’t bother him either way, if Stiles wanted to keep things subtle and reserved, or spend the afternoon _sitting in Peter’s lap_ — his exact words, and of course he’d said it just when Stiles was taking a sip of his coffee, because he was a _dick_.

It also wasn’t surprising that Peter had claimed complete disinterest in the opinions of his family and Pack, considering the aforementioned dickery. Seeing him now, though, Stiles was reminded of something else: Derek’s birthday party, and the way the other guests had skirted around Peter like he was an menacing dog on the end of a flimsy leash. Those guests hadn’t all been Hale Pack, and that might have explained some of their wariness, but Stiles didn’t see too much of a difference with the Wolf Moon crowd at the moment. The people hanging around the food tables were giving Peter a wide berth, not exactly cringing away, but not cozying up either. None of them were attempting conversation.

What was it Peter had told him before? He was one of the Betas responsible for _enforcing order_ for Talia. And Stiles had been a cop’s son his entire life, so he was really no stranger to the kind of standoffish nervousness that kind of authority could foster. His dad was a pretty genial guy, and some people still clammed up the minute he and his badge walked into a room.

Stiles had been planning to keep things simple, maybe a wave and a hello, but now his gut was twinging. Peter finished loading his plate, and dipped a small nod in Stiles’ direction before turning to walk away, casual as anything; he really was leaving it completely in Stiles’ hands.

Well, shit.

“Hey, Peter!” There would be absolutely no lap sitting, but Stiles wasn’t going to completely blank the dude. That didn’t feel right at all.

He loped around one corner of the party tent, closing the distance between them in a few long strides. Peter waited for him, wearing a carefully neutral expression, but Stiles didn’t think he was imagining the warmth thawing those steely blue eyes.

“Hey,” he said again when he was close enough, bumping Peter’s shoulder with his own. That definitely earned him a reaction: a surprised but genuine little smile, and an answering shoulder bump, firm but not too hard.

In the short while he’d been loitering around the Hales’ yard, Stiles had seen so much blatant scent marking. He’d even gotten a couple of polite pats on the shoulder greeting and chatting with people, and returned the gesture when it seemed appropriate. He didn’t miss much about spending time with the Skalas, but there was something comforting about the relaxed, sociable touching. It reminded him of his mom.

Hell, it even made him think about Jackson. They’d been belligerently bros for more than a decade, and they both had an instinctual craving for touch, so there had been a lot of roughhousing over the years. Lydia liked to call them barbarians, but she’d been known to wedge herself into the occasional movie night dog pile when they were younger, even before she had the kids to use as an excuse for cuddles.

At the moment, both of Stiles’ hands were occupied, holding onto his drink and his own plate of food, but he was determined not to half-ass this. He gave the side of Peter’s neck a meaningful, exaggerated look, trying to communicate his intentions without actually spelling it out, and was rewarded by a eloquent lift of Peter’s eyebrows, and more importantly, a slight but unmistakable tilt of his chin.

Stiles had never met a shifter who bared their throat carelessly, and he was sure Peter Hale wasn’t the exception to that rule. There was no doubt in his mind that Peter meant it as an invitation, but still, Stiles leaned in slowly, giving the guy plenty of time to back away if he wanted. No sudden moves that could be misinterpreted as aggression— it was respectful, and also much safer than charging in full speed on the day of a full moon, when instincts were cranked up to eleven.

Peter didn’t so much as flinch when Stiles’ cheek brushed against the edge of his jaw; he went worryingly stock-still for the span of a couple increasingly tense seconds. Then, without any warning at all, he sort of melted forward with a big, breathy exhale, leaning in and rubbing his nose behind Stiles’ ear.

“Do not give me freaking beard burn, you big dope,” Stiles said, policing his language in deference to little shifter ears. The fact that he was speaking against Peter’s skin probably took a lot of the bite out of his words.

“Can’t blame me, sweetheart. This is all on you.” There was nothing even remotely subtle about the way Peter was sniffing him, and the puffs of hot breath were starting to feel a bit too personal, but Stiles didn’t make any attempt to retreat. It wasn’t really an obscenely long or intimate scenting, but it was a pretty informal, familiar greeting. Affectionate.

Stiles’ entire face and neck were tingling when they finally broke apart; he was probably pink and ridiculously flushed, but any concerns he had about it evaporated the instant he got a good look at Peter. There was no way Stiles could maintain any worry about looking like an idiot in front of the Hales when Peter was staring at him like that, with glassy, fever-bright eyes, and his mouth hanging just slightly open. _Holy shit_.

“Uh, hi,” Stiles said, because it was either find something to say, or go for broke and lean back in for a kiss. He might not be the greatest specimen of self-control, but he wasn’t going to push things that far. Not even when Peter’s tongue made an appearance, wetting his bottom lip.

“Hi,” Peter parroted, while his attention strayed down to Stiles’ neck in a mildly dazed, exceedingly flattering sort of way. Unhelpful, but flattering.

They’d garnered an audience, which Peter seemed to notice at about the same time Stiles did. When he rounded on the world at large, teeth bared and sharper than usual, at least a dozen curious gazes were suddenly redirected elsewhere. That hint of fang made something heavy and hot settle in Stiles’ gut, which he resolutely ignored.

It was past time to steer this fledgling conversation toward safer topics, or any topic at all beyond gratuitous face-to-neck contact, before one of them did something stupid. And Stiles didn’t even have the moon as an excuse, so really, it was his job to be the responsible adult here.

“So this is a Wolf Moon party,” he said, suppressing a wince at how lame that sounded. “Oh, I met your sister, Bethany? Only for a minute, but she seemed pretty great. Said I was adorable, which hey, not as good for the ego as _devastatingly handsome_ , but I’ll take what I can get.”

“If you’re looking for someone to stroke your ego,” Peter started to say, in a low voice so thick with innuendo you could stand on it, then laughed when Stiles kicked him.

“Easy, tiger.” He’d been so close to saying _down boy_ instead, but swallowed that back at the last second, even if it would have been the somewhat less flirty option. Dog jokes were probably not the best way to endear himself to a Pack of werewolves. Stiles jerked his head, indicating the yard spread out behind him. “I’m going to wrangle the twins, see if I can get some food into them. You up for some fine dining with Pre-K company, or...”

“That depends on you,” Peter said, lifting his heaping plate of food. “This is for my mother, who, by the way, is eager to meet you. My condolences.”

“What? Why?” _Eager to meet you_ sounded ominous. “What did you tell her?”

“Not a damn thing.” Peter shrugged. “But apparently some people have been running their mouths, and it’s got her curious— you can thank Derek, and probably Talia for that. Anyway, you and the twins are welcome to come eat with us and get the inevitable trauma over with, or you can wait for Mom to ambush you later. Entirely up to you.”

“Inevitable trauma. Wow.” There wasn’t any humour lurking in Peter’s expression, no sign that he was kidding, but it wasn’t exactly a dire warning to grab his kids and escape while he could either. Just a bald statement. “Alright, sure. Sounds completely terrifying, but let’s go for it. Tear this bandaid off. Where are you sitting?”

Peter pointed, and Stiles made a mental note without peering too hard in that direction. The yard wasn’t that big; he’d find them, after he herded some little Stilinskis.

 

* * *

 

Stiles didn’t intend to interrupt a private conversation, but without putting the twins on leashes, a social faux pas or two was pretty much par for the course.

“You will remember who you’re speaking to, pup.” There was a petite, stiff-postured woman sitting crosslegged on a blanket spread over the grass, gesturing expressively with a stemless wine glass. The tone of her voice was sharp and clearly annoyed. “I know how to comport myself around children, for god’s sake.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mom.” Peter, lounging beside her, had his lip curled in a tight grimace, and not an ounce of sincerity in his voice. Stiles very nearly snagged Scott by the hood, just to keep his kids hanging back for a second, but the twins were already rushing forward like excited puppies. “Having never seen any evidence of that in the last thirty years or so, you’ll excuse my scepticism.”

“Hey hey, Team Stilinski has arrived,” Stiles said, too loudly and bright with forced enthusiasm for the kids’ sake. Thank god Peter seemed to smarten up immediately, turning to the quickly approaching twins with a much more pleasant expression than he’d been wearing a split second before.

“Well, hello there,” he said, and didn’t hesitate to open his arms when Malia all but leapt at him. She was always clingier on full moons, and today wasn’t any different. Scott wasn’t quite as abrupt about it, but he didn’t miss his chance, either.

“Hi, Uncle Peter,” Scott said, squirming in for a hug too, while Malia growled happily, scrubbing her face against Peter’s cheek.

“Itchy!” Malia leaned back enough to look Peter in the eye while still hanging on. “You’re all prickly.”

“So I’ve heard,” Peter said, hoisting Scott closer to help the boy find a comfortable spot. Stiles ordinarily would have pried his spawn off by now, but the dude looked perfectly content being treated like a jungle gym, and Stiles was juggling two plates of food, juice boxes, and water bottles.

“Hey, peanuts?” Two little heads swivelled around, and Stiles was fixed by a pair of big, brown-eyed stares. He jerked his chin, drawing their attention to the woman Stiles assumed was Peter’s mother. She didn’t seem terribly offended that she’d been snubbed; she was too busy blatantly sizing him up. Jesus. “Manners, yeah? You going to say hello?”

“Pups,” Peter said, taking over the introductions. “This is my mother, Bryony. Mom, I’d like you to meet Malia and Scott, and their dad, Stiles.”

“Hi,” both kids chorused, shyer and softer than a moment before, but curious too. Malia, who was closer, dropped her head onto Peter’s shoulder, facing out towards the woman. “Your hair is really long.”

“And pretty,” Scott added, with that sweet, wholehearted grin that made unsuspecting people melt and coo over him. He’d have been an absolute menace, if he had one malicious bone in his body.

Bryony did have long hair— completely jet black and falling to her mid back. Longer than Melissa’s by at least a good couple of inches, possibly longer than Lydia’s, though it was hard to tell with how she was sitting. Guessing shifter ages could be a crapshoot, but considering Peter was the youngest of his siblings, along with the fine lines crinkling at the corners of Bryony’s mouth and eyes, Stiles pegged her as older than his dad, but not what he’d call elderly. In her sixties, maybe, even if she could probably pass for forty-five.

Stiles didn’t really know what he’d expected when he imagined Peter’s mother, but he could certainly see some of Talia in her, and Bethany too. Peter was fairer, and built bulkier, but there were enough similarities in their noses and jawlines to notice, if you were looking.

“Aren’t you darling,” Bryony said, focusing her attention on the kids for just a second or two before looking up at Stiles again. “Sit, dear, before you drop something. I do bite, but I hope you’re brave enough to risk it, if you’re voluntarily keeping company with my son.”

“I’d say he’s more bark than bite.” Careful not to spill, Stiles maneuvered himself down onto the blanket in a graceless pile of limbs. “But you’re his mom, so I’m pretty sure you know that’s not true. Guys, quit pawing Peter to death and come get some snacks.”

It took a bit of shuffling around, but eventually he had two kids sitting on their butts and filling their faces. He’d let them choose most of their own food at the buffet tables instead of putting the plates together himself, so there wasn’t much chance of either of them kicking up a fuss because they didn’t want any fruit, or weren’t in the mood for potato salad to touch their hotdog buns, or whatever.

Peter helped an enormous amount with the logistics of getting them settled, slipping naturally into what Stiles figured was teacher-mode. Making sure Stiles’ kids had napkins and opening Scotty’s juice for him wasn’t Peter’s job though, and Stiles started to feel guilty about piling extra work on the dude at a family function. Started to, until Peter caught his eye, flashing him a small smile and a quick wink as he expertly punched the straw through a juice box and passed it into grasping hands.

Stiles refused to find it scorchingly hot that Peter was so good with kids. He might be a single dad, but damn it, that was not a kink he wanted to develop.

“Thank you,” Scott said dutifully before slurping his drink. Malia was busy ravenously mowing through some kind of bean salad she’d liked the smell of, getting oily dressing on her chin and fingers, but odds were she’d lick up most of the mess before she was done.

So far, Malia was doing alright with so many people around and so much excitement; she wasn’t showing signs of being overwhelmed by the stimulation, or any amped up aggression. If things were going to get dicey, it probably wouldn’t be until closer to moonrise, which was hours away. They had time.

“Stilinski,” Bryony said, pitched like a question, once things quieted down to messy chomping. Stiles had just popped a piece of kiwi into his mouth, filched out of Malia’s fruit salad since she wouldn’t usually touch it with a ten foot pole, but he managed an encouraging hum. “Any relation to our sheriff?”

“Grandpa,” Malia mumbled around a mouthful, barely comprehensible.

“My dad,” Stiles said, after he’d swallowed. Then he glanced at Peter. “He’s working tonight, sleeping today, but he said he’d try to stop by for a few minutes before his shift starts. Talia invited him too.”

“ _Talia_ invited you?” Bryony’s eyebrows arched, but when she levelled her son with a look, Peter was suddenly very interested in checking how the kids were faring. “I suppose that’s traditional, isn’t it.”

Stiles cocked his head, frowning. “Is it?”

“Your pup isn’t the only Omega here, dear,” Bryony said. “There might be other Packs in Beacon County, but it is Hale territory, and Talia’s prerogative to bring lone wolves into the fold, at least for the night. Not usually so young, but then again, pups aren’t often Omegas. Most Alphas are eager to take in a Packless child.”

“Yeah, maybe too eager, sometimes.” Bristling with defensiveness was habit, but Stiles kept himself in check. He could hear Jackson and Lydia whispering in the back of his head, calling him thin-skinned. “We’ve had some offers in the past, but we’re good on our own, you know?”

“Well, you’re obviously doing something right.” Bryony waved her hand, indicating the twins, who were sitting relatively peacefully, lost in their own little world. Scott was picking bites off of Malia’s plate, and her only retaliation was stealing some of his food in return. “Some grown Betas aren’t that agreeable on a full moon. My own pups certainly weren’t at this age.”

“To be fair,” Stiles said, pleasantly shocked by the compliment, when he’d been braced for something else entirely. “Peter’s not that agreeable now.”

“I’m still sitting right here,” Peter said. “And I can be very agreeable, with the right incentive.”

There were a dozen different retorts on the tip of Stiles’ tongue, but he bit them back. Not for the sake of the kids— they were still at an age where most innuendo went right over their heads— but he wasn’t quite ready to start flirting in front of Peter’s mother. Especially not when she was looking so damned delighted already, smirking like the cat who’d gotten the cream.

Stiles was relieved when, instead of commenting, she decided to change the subject.

“I've met your father, Stiles,” Bryony said, returning them to safer topics. “More than once. I was still Hale Alpha when he was first elected. He seemed like a good man— likable. Reasonable, but not spineless. Certainly more useful than the previous sheriff when it came to Pack relations.” When her smile split wider, her teeth were blunt and flat, but somehow razor-sharp at the same time. “And remarkably sexy, if I recall correctly. A credit to the uniform, in every sense.”

Stiles choked slightly on his own spit, while Peter rolled his eyes so hard it was a surprise he didn’t sprain something. The kids were oblivious, munching away.

“That’s, yeah.” Clearing his throat, Stiles found himself smiling back at the woman, weirdly charmed and definitely amused. There was a pretty good chance his dad would at least make an appearance at the Hales’ later that afternoon, and Stiles was looking forward to it even more now. “He’ll, uh, he’ll be thrilled to hear that, ma’am.”

“He calls me _ma’am_.” Bryony reached out, slapping the knee of Peter’s jeans as she barked out a rich, husky laugh that didn’t quite fit her frame. “Behave yourself with this one, Peter. He’s adorable.”

“That’s what I said!” Bethany appeared out of freaking nowhere, making Stiles’ heart seize as she dropped down to sit right next to him. Goddamn ninja Hales. “Peter, here, you have to try this. You too, Mom.”

Bethany held out two of the super heavy-duty paper plates the Hales must have bought in bulk; they were piled with a very familiar casserole, with disposable wooden forks sticking out of the generous heaps.

“I really don’t,” Peter said, while Bryony accepted the plate with more grace and curiosity. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the prettiest meal on the face of the earth, but Stiles felt a twinge of insult anyway when Peter’s nose wrinkled. “Scrape that back into whatever hole you found it in. It looks like dog food.”

Scott let out few yippy barks, and both kids dissolved into giggling. They might not be fully aware of the joke, but apparently they weren’t going to give the game away, even if they knew precisely what Bethany was waving around. They’d been eating Baba Stilinski’s cabbage rolls since they had teeth, though if Stiles’ grandmother ever found out that he skipped the actual rolling step more often than not, she’d have his balls.

“Don’t make me resort to something as gauche as blackmail, Repeat,” Bethany said, ignoring Peter’s warning growl. “Do you have any idea how many old photo albums are in the house, just waiting to be dredged up? I seem to recall someone going through an absolutely outstanding grunge phase that really needs to be seen to be believed.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles was overwhelmed by this tidal wave of new, amazing information that needed to be unpacked. He didn’t know what to focus on first. “Did you just— grunge phase? And did you call him _Repeat_?”

“ _No_.” Peter glared at him, then looked down at the twins, with his mouth thinning into a tight line. Whatever scathing thing he was obviously bursting to lash his sister with was impeded by the kids’ presence. Inhaling a sharp breath through his nose, he held out his hand for the plate. “Let’s get this over with.”

“You won’t regret it,” Bethany said, sing-song and sugary as she passed the food over. Peter took it with about as much enthusiasm as Stiles used to feel when handling dirty diapers. He picked up the fork, jabbed bitterly at the casserole, and took one small bite.

The momentary flash of surprise, definitely not disgust, had Stiles biting the inside of his lips to keep his grin in check. It shouldn’t have been a big deal,but the vindication of Peter actually enjoying the food, whether he wanted to or not, made something warm and horrifically embarrassing bloom in Stiles’ chest.

“Alright, it’s edible,” Peter allowed after a moment, scooping up another forkful before trying to hand the plate back. Instead of keeping up appearances, he’d deigned to have a second bite, and Stiles privately wallowed in smugness. Especially when it turned out that Bryony was nearly halfway through her own serving.

“Oh no,” Bethany said, shaking her head. “That’s all for you. You honestly think I’d bring that out here without eating my share first? This isn’t my first full moon, you bottomless pit.”

When Peter glanced over, Stiles waved him off before he could offer. “Go for it, man.”

“It’s surprisingly good,” Peter said, only vaguely begrudging. Bryony hummed in agreement, sipping the dregs of her wine.

“Oh yeah, I know.” Stiles shared a quick, amused look with Bethany. “I’d give you the recipe, but it’s one of those big Stilinski family secrets, and I’d rather not get disowned. Glad you like it, though.”

“You—” Peter stopped, then sighed, digging into the casserole instead of saying anything else.

“Aren’t you just full of surprises,” Bryony said, catching Stiles’ eye over the rim of her glass.

 

* * *

 

The twins couldn’t be expected to stay still for long, not when there was a pack of other kids running around, all hyped on barbecue and the moon. When a pair of little Hales dashed up, eager to play, Stiles released his spawn back into the wild, but only after Scott had taken a dose of his inhaler to help the little guy keep up. Cora and Derek had each given their grandmother a peck on the cheek, along with a quick _Hi Nana Bea_ , before twining their hands with Scott and Malia and making their escape.

“Cute,” Bethany said, watching them scamper away, then twisted around to jab a finger in her mother’s direction. “Now, explain to me what the hell you were thinking, getting Laura all riled up. Because you know there are much easier ways to piss Talia off.”

Stiles froze like a deer in headlights, cutting a sideways look at Peter, who just shrugged, apparently unconcerned by the decidedly tense shift in mood.

“It has nothing to do with Talia.” Bryony picked up a nearly empty bottle of wine, and without a moment’s hesitation, yanked the cork out with her teeth and refilled her glass. “And I didn’t rile anyone up, so take care, pup. Laura came to me, and when she asked about sparring and challenges, I told her the truth. She’s old enough to take part if she wants to.”

“She’s _ten_ , Mom.”

“Yes, she’s ten,” Bryony agreed. “And spirited, and firstborn of an Alpha. If the girl wants to test herself, I say let her. She’ll get hurt, she’ll heal, and she’ll learn something. I had my first real challenge when I was her age, and that unmitigated shitkicking didn’t do me any harm.”

“Oh, I know. We’ve all heard the story.” Bethany’s flat, unimpressed expression didn’t waver. “Which is why I had to explain to Laura that things were different back when Nana Bea was a kid. Dinosaurs roamed the earth, for one thing.”

“Stiles,” Peter said. “Let’s go grab a drink, hm?”

“Yeah, great—” Absolutely keen to accept the rescue, Stiles didn’t waste a moment scrambling to his feet. He offered a hand and Peter grabbed it, allowing the unnecessary help to hoist him up and giving Stiles’ fingers a squeeze at the same time.

“Well done, Bethany,” Bryony said, scathingly enough that Stiles winced in sympathy. “You’ve scared him off with your foolish fussing. Stiles, dear, I’ll find you again before moonrise for a chat. Without any interruptions.”

“Great,” Stiles said again, with as much sincerity as he could muster, and prayed his heartbeat stayed steady. Peter kept a lingering point of contact between them, with fingers looped lightly around his wrist. Stiles appreciated the anchor. “I’ll keep my dance card open.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ran so much longer than I’d planned, so there’s more Wolf Moon next time too. Among other things, we’ll check in with Talia, and have another chat with Bryony.


	18. Wolf Moon: Hurricane Bea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of violence in this chapter, and discussions of past character death.
> 
> I may be fudging details like a champ, but jsyk, I didn’t pull this “big Wolf Moon party, Omegas get invited too” thing out of thin air. Dr. Fenris mentions Wolf Moon rituals to Scott and Stiles in the “Teen Wolf: Search for a Cure” webseries. I just took that throwaway mention and ran with it.

“Okay Cujo, spill.” Stiles crossed his ankles, watching the kids run around with Peter crowded up beside him. They weren’t really touching, just the occasional brush of their arms, but they were slouched so close together that the dude’s amped up shifter body heat was noticeable. “Challenges and sparring, or the infamous grunge phase. Pick a topic and sate my burning curiosity.”

“Sparring,” Peter said, which wasn’t a surprising choice, or even a particularly disappointing one. If there were photos of Peter in ripped acid wash and oversized flannel, Stiles was going to find them eventually. “Is exactly what it sounds like. Helps work out some aggression, gets the blood pumping, that sort of thing. Challenges are similar, except the fights are more serious, and generally have some sort of reason that’s been stewing for months: settling an argument, responding to an insult, or trying to move up in the Pack. Basically, you get enough werewolves together like this, and it’s inevitable that we’ll find an excuse to start beating the crap out of each other. Especially family.”

“Yeah, I’m imagining really great Thanksgiving dinners.” Stiles grinned, still watching the kids instead of looking over at Peter. He’d done enough research into Wolf Moon gatherings that he wasn’t slightly surprised by any of this. “Pass the green beans, a little maiming and mauling, and then it’s time for pie.”

“Pretty much.”

“Awesome.” They had actually grabbed some drinks, legitimating their excuse to escape the immensely uncomfortable family squabbling. Sneaking a peek at how Peter’s thick throat worked as he tipped back his beer was a religious experience, and Stiles was a bad, bad man. “What about you? Planning on working out some aggression later, or what?”

Stiles had known the question was going to sound at least a little suggestive, a little teasing, but he wasn’t quite expecting his own throat to be so dry. The resulting husky murmur sounded way dirtier than he’d planned, and Peter didn’t seem to object.

“Oh, definitely.” They weren’t sitting, not really, but they were both perched with their asses on the edge of a deserted picnic table, side by side. Peter leaned closer, bracing one hand on the tabletop; his arm was a firm line pressed diagonally across Stiles’ back. “Though I haven’t quite decided how yet. I’ve got a few options in mind.”

“I’m listening.” Stiles really shouldn’t have been encouraging this. And he really, _really_ shouldn’t have been tipping his head to one side, letting Peter nose delicately at the hinge of his jaw. At least they were off closer to the edge of the yard, affording them a tiny bit of privacy.

“Well,” Peter said, drawing out the word. He was breathing hot and damp against Stiles’ skin, but not technically doing anything more intimate than scenting. Slow, lingering scenting. “I could go a round or two in the sparring ring. It’s always satisfying to bloody a few upstart cousins, and who knows, I might even work up a sweat. Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

“I can think of a few, just off the top of my head. Potentially sweaty, definitely satisfying.” Reaching up, Stiles snagged Peter by the chin and pushed him back to a relatively respectable distance. “And if you’re lucky, I might even tell you all about them, in glorious, graphic detail. _Later_.”

“Later is a very subjective term,” Peter murmured, nipping at Stiles’ knuckles and getting swatted for his trouble.

“Later,” Stiles repeated, not quite able to entirely stifle his smile, but serious about this all the same. “As in, sometime in the future, when we’re not in your sister’s backyard, surrounded by your family and my kids. You owe me dinner, remember?”

“Hm, I do, don’t I?” Peter looked thoughtful, and still very close. The arm he had braced on the table was a noticeable presence, and Stiles’ shoulder was pressed into the dense mass of his chest. “Any plans Saturday night?”

“Pretty sure I can pencil something in.” Thumbing the tab of the soda can he had cradled in his other hand, Stiles didn’t scoot over to put any more space between them. Peter was very warm, and the air was crisp enough that Stiles was glad he’d made both of his kids layer up. “So, you’d warn me if your mom was going to eat me alive, right?”

“Literally, or just emotionally?” Before Stiles could clarify he’d meant _either, both, whatever_ , the glint in Peter’s eyes dimmed, and his mouth twisted into an annoyed frown. “We have company incoming.”

Stiles looked up in time to see Talia striding out of the woods, cinching her long, brightly patterned wrap dress with a neat bow tied over her hip. There was another woman with her, who looked about six or seven months pregnant if Stiles had to guess, and a tall, red-headed guy.

“Three,” Peter said under his breath. Stiles watched as Talia cocked her head, but not as though she was listening to either of the other two people speaking. “Two, _one_ —”

Almost as if on cue, Talia’s attention honed in on their picnic table with laser accuracy. The smile that split her face was luminous, and she immediately changed direction to approach them, leaving the pair to follow.

“Stiles!” Talia spread her arms wide when she got close enough, and Stiles could’ve sworn he felt a dangerous sort of rumble in Peter’s chest, but there wasn’t any audible growling. Nothing obviously aggressive, which was a relief; it certainly wouldn’t have been the first time Stiles had gotten caught in the middle of a moon-driven tantrum, but it was rarely a fun time for the squishy human.

Standing, Stiles set his soda down on the table and subtly pinched Peter’s ribs at the same time, before letting himself get swept up in a hug. There was a dark, loamy smell clinging to Talia’s hair, like wet earth and fallen leaves, and it was strong even to Stiles’ nose.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, pressing their cheeks together before pulling away, keeping her hands on his shoulders. “And what about your pups? And your father?”

“The kids are here,” Stiles said, without stepping back. “Dad’s working tonight, but he said he’d try to drop by first.”

Shifters had certain social protocols, and Stiles liked to think he was pretty familiar with most of the major ones. More familiar than a lot of humans were, anyway. He knew the sort of message he was sending when he slotted one hand around the side of Talia’s neck, and gave her nape a very gentle squeeze, all without letting his gaze drop from hers for even a second.

It was impossible to miss the way her eyes widened in surprise, especially since they brightened from deep brown to brilliant crimson at the same time. There wasn’t a hint of fang or any other warning, though— Stiles willed his stomach to unclench when his gamble didn’t earn him a faceful of snarling, insulted Alpha.

Her smile had flagged somewhat, but it bloomed again after a long, unsure moment, quirking up at one corner of her mouth.

“We’re honoured you’re spending the moon with us.” The red faded from her eyes, and she gave his nape a squeeze in return, just as softly and as briefly as he’d done to her. Then she withdrew, retreating a step and holding out a hand to indicate the pair of people who’d followed her over. The woman was staring at Stiles with her eyebrows arched high, and her mouth slack and slightly parted.

“Stiles, this is my second cousin Anita and her fiancé Casey. Stiles is a family friend.”

“Hey, good to meet you.” Going in for handshakes, Stiles was thrown for a loop when Anita tipped her head, baring her neck at him. He’d just wanted to subtly remind Talia that she wasn’t his Alpha, not make any grand statements. Damn it.

Flat out ignoring the gesture would be rude, so Stiles stamped down that immediate urge, and leaned in instead. Anita wasn’t much shorter than Talia— especially not now, with Anita in hiking boots and Talia apparently walking around totally barefoot, which Stiles just noticed. Still, Stiles had a good couple of inches on the woman, which made craning in around the swell of her belly a bit easier.

He brushed his cheek against her jaw, as casually as he could, then drew back and held out a hand to Casey. Much to Stiles’ relief, the dude didn’t offer his throat, though he did shoot his fiancée a mildly panicked sort of glance before accepting the handshake.

“Peter,” Talia said. “Anita’s planning to challenge Aunt Iris’ Colin. Are you interested in standing for her?”

“I suppose I could.” Stretching out his legs, Peter was the picture of unconcerned boredom. “What’s that little shitheel done now?”

Talia crossed her arms. “Does it matter?”

“Well no, not really.” Peter looked at Anita. “But if it was something particularly annoying, I could really drag it out. Humble him. Broken ribs heal a lot quicker than bruised pride, and I’m rather good at dispensing both.”

“I’ll leave that up to your discretion,” Talia said, while Anita wasn’t quite as diplomatic.

“He deserves to have his arms ripped off.” She moved closer to Peter, with one hand wrapped around the thick braid of brown hair that hung over her shoulder, and the other hand resting on the curve of her stomach. Her claws were extended, curved and wicked looking, and Stiles resisted the instinct to retreat a couple of steps. “And if they’d let me, I’d do it myself. You were my first choice for a stand-in, Peter.”

“Naturally.” Peter inclined his head. “Alright, I’ll do it. Talia, you should probably make sure Alan has his kit with him. He’ll want to be ready to do some stitching.”

“Yes, I’ll tell him.” Talia heaved a long-suffering sort of sigh. “We’ll get it out of the way before moonrise, along with a few others. Meet at the ring in an hour.”

“Out of curiosity,” Peter said. “Would any of those _others_ include our dear Laura? She’s apparently very keen.”

“ _What_?” Peter held up both hands in surrender when Talia rounded on him.

“Not my idea; I have absolutely nothing to do with it. Take it up with Mom and Beth.”

“I’m going to kill her,” Talia said, mostly under her breath, then seemed to centre herself with some effort. “It’s fine. I’ll deal with it. Peter, one hour, at the ring.”

“I’ll be there with bells on.” Peter twiddled a little wave as Talia stalked off. Anita and Casey wasted no time in making themselves scarce as well, leaving with a few short words and reserved nods.

Stiles felt a tiny bit adrift, to be honest. That entire exchange had been a lot to take in.

“So,” he said, after a moment. “Challenges, huh?”

When he turned, he found Peter studying him with a carefully blank expression, still in the same relaxed sprawl against the table.

“Is this the sort of thing that has an audience?” When Peter nodded without speaking, Stiles nodded in return, thoughtful. Then he closed the distance between them, and settled back into the spot on the table that he’d vacated. His shoulder pressed up against Peter’s. “I’m not going to watch.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Peter’s tone, much like his expression, was placid and perfectly neutral.

“I'm not, like, morally opposed to you doing your thing, though. It doesn't bother me.” He didn’t want Peter to think the casual, sanctioned violence was a deal-breaker, which was probably what the guy was worried about at the moment. It was a cultural thing; Stiles understood that enough not to freak out, even if it wasn’t how he was raised. It was a little jarring, sure, but not a deal-breaker. “Just, I told the twins they’re not allowed in the woods, and I’m not comfortable going and leaving them here without me. I’ve got to stay with them. Plus, I’m not a hundred percent sure I wouldn’t puke if I saw you rip somebody’s arm off, even if it wasn’t permanent.”

Peter was silent for a few beats, and eerily stock-still with predatory focus, until finally Stiles felt a light touch against his lower back. When Stiles didn’t shy away, the touch gained surety, firming up and curling into a loose sort of embrace. A broad hand slid around, resting against his hip, and Peter’s thumb hooked into his belt loop.

This was inching precariously close to some all-out cuddling, but Stiles couldn’t dredge up the mood to protest.

“You’re fascinating,” Peter said quietly, almost as if he didn’t want Stiles to hear the words, though they were spoken three inches from his ear. So quietly that Stiles wasn’t sure whether he should respond, or what the hell he was supposed to say to that, besides _thanks_.

Peter beat him to the punch, clearing his throat before Stiles could blurt out anything ridiculous.

“I’m probably not actually going to tear off his arms,” he said, very obviously looking everywhere but at Stiles. It was bizarrely adorable, and Stiles chewed on his bottom lip, stifling what would’ve probably been a mortifyingly sappy smile.

They were talking about the real possibility of an imminent dismemberment, and he was feeling downright goofy. God, there was something so wrong with him.

“Okay.” He laid his hand on Peter’s thigh, in the safe and not too provocative zone right above the knee, and refused to get too distracted by the thick muscle tensing under his palm. “So, is this Colin guy a dick, or what? Is he a big guy? Should I be worried?”

“Please.” Peter scoffed, finally turning away from his protracted staring contest with the treeline to look Stiles in the face again. “As if I’d fight fair if there was even the slightest chance of him winning. He’s a witless punk, and I’m going to hand him his own ass.”

“Jesus,” Stiles laughed. “That shouldn’t be hot. Any chance of this turning into an old school, Greco-Roman thing? Maybe with like a Turkish wrestling twist—”

“If I was going to get naked in the woods,” Peter said, deadpan. “Oil up, and writhe around with somebody, Colin would not be my first choice. But hey, I’m up for an exhibition match if you are, sweetheart. I’ll even go easy on you.”

“Yeah, no. You ever try to _go easy on me_ , babe, and we’re gonna have a problem.” Peter didn’t baulk at the endearment, and Stiles felt a shivery little thrill. Or possibly that was from the dangerous smoulder currently being directed his way. Possibly a bit of both. “Listen, I know I said it didn’t bother me, but for the record? During the course of this wild and wolfy cage fight, I’d really appreciate it if all _your_ miscellaneous bits and pieces stayed attached. At least until I get a chance to test them all out, pick a favourite. Capiche?”

This time, when Peter’s chest vibrated, there was no doubt about the growl that rumbled up out of him. It wasn’t especially loud, but it was full and sonorous, like a roll of thunder from a storm still miles away. It shook Stiles to his bones.

“Stiles.” The grip on his hip tightened. “Do you really think it’s wise, baiting a werewolf on a full moon?”

“Never let it be said that I’ve got a healthy survival instinct, especially when the alternative is way more fun.” When Peter pressed closer, Stiles pulled back, laughing again at the frankly offended pout he got in return. “Save it for Saturday, Cujo. Right now, you gotta go get your wolf on and kick some ass.”

Ruffling Peter’s hair turned that pout into a snarl, fangs and all, but Stiles wasn’t remotely afraid. Not even when, in an asshole move of swift and decisive retaliation, Peter had him pinned belly-up on the picnic table.

Stiles was definitely going to protest the unfair use of shifter reflexes to mercilessly tickle and pinch at his sides and stomach, once he managed to catch his breath.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, it was time for Peter to disappear into the woods, and Stiles was left drifting around to mingle again. He was probably being paranoid, but he couldn’t shake the sense that the mood around him had shifted to something unsure. The vibe wasn’t unfriendly, but he noticed more looks, assessing. It might have been a result of his refusal to submit to Talia, if either Anita or Casey had decided to spread that around. Or maybe it was as simple as the fact that he was probably saturated in Peter’s scent— _eau de_ handsy shifter.

He ended up ambling over to the deck, while at least half of the other guests headed into the woods, presumably to watch some beatdowns. Brendan was at the grills again, this time with the other barbecue open, basting thick brown sauce over an indecent abundance of ribs. He seemed eager enough to shoot the shit with Stiles, which meant he either hadn’t heard anything about the little dominance display with his wife, or he wasn’t bothered. Either way, he was pretty decent company, chatting about cooking and letting loose big, booming laughs at Stiles’ jokes.

When Brendan slipped off to get some things together in the kitchen, Stiles stayed on the deck, leaning on the railing and observing. Some of the older kids had scurried into the woods too, but there were still a handful of younger ones running around. He spotted Malia easily enough, clambering like a monkey over the Hales’ enormous wooden play fort, complete with swings, climbing bars, and two slides. On a normal day, this much fresh air and horsing around would have pretty much guaranteed a sleepy little girl, cranky and overtired if they were unlucky, and an early night. But full moons were a different story; Malia had energy to burn.

Scott wasn’t swinging around next to his sister, though, and Stiles frowned, looking harder. He pushed away from the railing, walking farther down to the end of the deck, toward the play fort.

“Lia,” he called, when he was close enough. Malia’s head popped up, mussed pigtails swinging, and she waved excitedly at him.

“Hi, Dad!”

“Hi, baby. Hey, sweetpea, where’s your brother?”

“I’m here, Dad,” said a happy little voice from behind Stiles, while Malia pointed and shouted: “Scotty’s right there!”

“Holy shit—” His own kids were picking up Hale habits, apparently, like appearing out of thin air. Stiles turned, and yeah, there was Scott just around the corner where the deck wrapped around the house, sitting crosslegged on a cushioned porch swing. And next to him, perfectly serene and equally criss-cross applesauce while having her hair wound into braids by pudgy five-year-old fingers, was Bryony.

“Hey, buddy!” Stiles swallowed his heart back down into his chest, relieved when he didn’t get a disappointed frown from his son for swearing. “What’s up? You keeping Ms. Hale company?”

“Nana Bea is so cool, Dad.” Scott finished the braid he was working on, laying it down delicately, always so mindful not to pull. “She went to the rainforest, the _real rainforest_ , and saw a real Toucan Sam! And she brought home chocolate, and she said I could have some, but only if you said it was okay.”

“I wasn’t sure if the boy had any allergies,” Bryony said, pushing her hair back from her face with an elegant sweep that belied the mess of loose, uneven braids all down one side.

Stiles shook his head. “No food allergies, no. Pollen, pets, that sort of thing, but not food. Or bees. Thanks for checking, though.”

“So can I, Dad?” The swing rocked a bit as Scott squirmed around, sitting up on his knees with his legs folded under him. “Please, can I have chocolate? Please?”

“If Nana Bea wants to share.” Stiles ignored how weird the nickname sounded coming out of his mouth, when referring to a woman he’d just met. “And you promise not to tease your sister about it later, then yes, you’re allowed.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Bryony said, while Scott cheered. “There’s some for your Malia, too. And all these Hale pups already got theirs, so there’ll be no squabbling. Nana’s rules.”

With all these kids around, no squabbling about chocolate sounded like an unreal expectation, but Stiles wasn’t going to bet money against the effectiveness of _Nana’s rules_.

“Go fetch my bag from the kitchen, dear,” Bryony said to Scott, and the boy was on his feet before she finished. “It’s bright red; you can’t miss it.”

“No running in the house,” Stiles yelled at Scott’s back, as the kid raced across the deck towards the Hales’ back door. When he turned his attention back to Bryony, the woman patted the cushion beside her.

“Sit.” It wasn’t a request, and the initial urge to refuse— _nah, I’m fine standing, thanks_ — died in his throat. A strange swell of anxiety washed through him, growing even stronger when he remembered Bryony would almost definitely be able to smell it on him. Flexing his hands against his thighs, Stiles lowered himself gingerly onto the swing, in the seat Scott had just left.

He had no idea what to say. Bryony didn’t have that problem.

“You’re not watching the challenges.” Without anyone else around to distract, there was something very obviously different, something not entirely human, about the intensity of her stare and the way she held herself. She was too still and watchful.

“Nope.” Stiles folded his hands; fidgeting would make him look too much like prey. “Ritualized ass-whooping, not really my scene. No offense.” Imagining Peter all disheveled and sweaty, wolfed out, wild, and thrumming with adrenaline… that was a whole other kettle of fish, and not the sort of thing he was going to talk to the dude’s mother about.

“You might enjoy the view, if nothing else,” Bryony said. For a split second, Stiles was terrified that she somehow knew about the momentary jaunt to porno-town his brain had taken, but no. No, he was _definitely_ being paranoid now. She was just being friendly. Or trying to wind him up.

“It’s more spectacle than savagery now,” she continued. “A lot of ridiculous tussling like pups in the dirt. Though I imagine you’d inspire some peacocking, if Peter saw you watching. He never could resist showing off. That could be interesting.”

“Yeah, more reason for me to hang out here,” Stiles said. “I’d rather not have to explain to my kids that their kindergarten teacher mauled some dude to death, just to show off.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Bryony’s mouth thinned, and she took a break from staring into his soul to roll her eyes derisively. “Challenges are never to the death anymore. Why do you think Anita needed someone to stand for her? A pregnant wolf is far too dangerous; she’d have split that little idiot open from belly to balls, no matter what Talia said. Oh, but we can’t have a mess like that anymore, can we?”

“Probably not, no,” Stiles said carefully, when it became clear that Bryony was actually waiting for him to answer. “I’m guessing that fatal evisceration at a family barbecue breaks at least a couple of county bylaws.”

“Exactly. All that human bureaucracy and unnecessary drama. There are much more pleasant thoughts I’d like to entertain about your father and handcuffs, instead of that nonsense.” Stiles had been staying away from the beer and sticking to water and soda all afternoon, determined to keep a totally clear head with his kids running around. But dear god, this conversation needed alcohol.

“Not that I want poor Colin dead, mind you,” Bryony clarified, in a flippant sort of way that wasn’t even slightly reassuring. “It’s the larger principle of the thing. A tradition thousands of years old was hobbled in a heartbeat, and all to cater to human laws.”

The staccato thudding of quick footsteps heralded Scott’s arrival before he came around the corner. The apples of his cheeks were flushed as red as the shiny leather purse he had clutched in both hands, but his breathing didn’t sound worrisome.

“I got it!” He hopped up into Stiles’ lap without hesitation, completely certain of his welcome, and held the bag out to Bryony like an offering. She smiled indulgently at the boy, but Stiles was starting to notice the way the warmth of the expression didn’t entirely reach her eyes.

“Wonderful. Thank you, Scott.” The pair of small, yellow-wrapped, triangular candy bars that Bryony fished out of her purse were not exactly what Stiles had been expecting. “Here you are, little lamb. Now, why don’t you go share with your sister?”

“Thanks, Nana Bea!” Scott was beaming, sliding back down onto his feet and racing off the deck without missing a beat.

“Toblerone?” Bryony held out another one of the fun-sized bars, pinched between her fingers like a cigarette. Pushing past an initial rush of wariness, Stiles accepted the candy, but some of his uncertainty must have shown on his face.

“You seem surprised,” Bryony said, peeling the wrapper off her own chocolate. “I bought them at the airport. I would’ve needed a barge to actually lug enough home for this horde, and most of these pups are too young to appreciate all that organic, gourmet, dark cacao garbage. Hell, I’m nearly seventy, and I can’t stand it either. If I had a taste for things that bitter and pretentious, I might have stayed married.”

Stiles cleared his throat, trying very hard not to inhale nougat and die. He knew next to nothing about Bryony’s ex-husband, though weirdly enough, he had actually met the man before. It was when he was thirteen, sitting sullenly in the ER of Beacon Memorial, with his leg propped up and his ankle and elbow throbbing, all from a fumbled boardslide and a shitty landing. At the time, he remembered thinking Doctor Hale was pretty cool, with his faint, possibly British accent, and the big, red _**S**_ for shifter glaring on his hospital ID badge. Mostly, Stiles had liked him because the doctor didn’t talk to Stiles like he was a stupid kid. He probably couldn’t have picked the dude out of a lineup now, but that memory stuck.

“Have you ever been married, Stiles?” Suddenly, he yearned to go back to talking about psycho shifter fight club. Though this may still have been a step up from discussing his dad’s sex life.

“Ah, no. Nope.” He started folding his empty wrapper into a progressively smaller and smaller square. “Apparently I proposed to my dentist when I got my wisdom teeth out, though. I was high out of my mind from the anesthesia, which I think just added to the romance, but she turned me down. Still, that was the closest I’ve come to a walk down the aisle.”

Questions like this always led to questions about the twins’ mom, and while Stiles wasn’t embarrassed about how things had worked out with Lucy, it could be weird to explain. The kids understood that Aunt Lucy had carried them in her belly until they were ready to be born, but she wasn’t their mom. They understood that all families were different: Lydia had kept Isaac in her belly, and she was his mom. The topic of Jackson’s birth parents, specifically their murder, hadn’t been discussed, but all three kids knew that he didn’t come from Mrs. Whittemore’s belly— they knew what _adoption_ meant. There was little kid in their preschool class, Andie, who had two moms. The twins had Stiles, and he wasn’t the only single parent they knew.

Countless permutations, but all families. The kids understood and accepted it fairly easily. It was adults who tended to get hung up on things.

“Mm, I see.” Leaning back in her seat, Bryony absently smoothed down the gauzy fabric of her blouse. “I’d say you’re doing well, dodging that bullet. But I’m a sour, unforgiving old woman, and my ex-husband is a narcissistic, backbiting prick. Not the best example of happy marriage, so what do I know about it, really.”

The candy wrapper couldn’t get any smaller, so Stiles unfolded it and started again, worrying the edges with his nail. If Bryony was offended or annoyed by his inability to keep still, she didn’t show it. She was watching him, placidly scrutinizing. He felt like he was being weighed, but he didn’t know the scale yet.

“Nothing like your parents were, I expect,” she said, and Stiles’ fingers fumbled, nearly dropping his ragged little diversion.

During this adventure of a conversation, he hadn’t been keeping his gaze averted like a lower ranking Beta might, but he hadn’t been seeking out too much prolonged eye contact either. Because it was plain good manners with a shifter he’d just met, and also because, to be quite honest, he was pretty much warily enamoured and scared shitless of Bryony Hale in equal measure.

Now though, his head snapped up, meeting her steady stare with his eyes wide and his stomach tightening.

“I remember Claudia.” Bryony’s expression didn’t soften into pity, and neither did her voice. Stiles felt the smallest fraction of his tension relax, but not much. “I was Alpha at the time, when she petitioned for permission to live in Hale territory, as a Skala first, then later as an Omega. A very bright young wolf. I don’t waste time with many regrets, and I’ll admit to even fewer, but I am sorry that I failed your mother. She didn’t deserve a death like that.”

“No.” Stiles swallowed thickly. “No, she didn’t. But nobody _failed_ , because it wasn’t— she was never Hale Pack—”

“It was my territory,” Bryony said, cutting him off. It almost felt like a mercy. “She was an Omega murdered on Hale land, without any justifiable cause, and that, dear boy, was my failure. Just like it would have been my responsibility to protect others from her, if she’d gone feral. Letting an Omega live in Pack territory is always a risk and a burden. A pain in the ass, more than anything. Most Alphas don’t allow it, or didn’t, before the Anagnorisis.”

Omegas, like Malia. Stiles squared his shoulders and sat up straighter, unfolding in breadth and height.

“If it’s so much of a pain in the ass,” he said evenly. “Why even bother? Isn’t that the whole _survival of the fittest_ shtick? Push out the problems, cull the weak, keep the Pack strong. Cruel, yeah sure, but straightforward, neat and tidy. Pragmatic. Inhumane, but then, human ideas of decency are overrated, aren’t they.”

“The pup has teeth,” Bryony said, grinning like he’d just done an amusing trick. “Good. You’re cute, but not cute enough to be bearable for any length of time if you were boring. To answer your question, Stiles, we bother because we’re forced to now. The Anagnorisis means Packs can’t kill rogue Omegas indiscriminately, or even drive them out of a territory with threats of violence. Omegas have protections under your laws, the same as anyone else.”

“Right.” Stiles took a breath, ignoring the angry metallic tang creeping up the back of his tongue. Peter might have said he didn’t give a shit about his mother’s opinion, but making a scene by verbally tearing the woman a new asshole was probably a bad idea on a number of levels. “And my mom wasn’t an Omega until after the Anagnorisis.”

“To be honest,” Bryony said. “That soon after, when everything was still in chaos, I could have sent her packing without much consequence, possibly even killed her. I let her stay because she told that jumped up little shit Niels Skala to piss off, and then proceeded to tell me where I could shove it when I offered her a place in the Hale Pack. Quite colourful, your mother. I liked her, very much. Your Malia seems spirited too, but let’s hope not too spirited. The world is still a dangerous place for an Omega, after all.”

“Bryony,” Stiles said, because _ma’am_ wasn’t fucking happening anymore, and _Nana Bea_ was just weird in his mouth. “I think I’m pretty much done with this conversation.”

He could handle a lot, but if she started on his kids, things were going to get ugly fast.

“Perfectly alright, dear.” Reaching out, she clapped him on the knee with one hand, squeezing just a shade harder than a polite human might. “You lasted longer than most, and I had a lot to work with. Fairly impressive, all things considered. Well done.”

Stiles blinked, considering. “You were screwing with me.”

“Was I?” Releasing his leg, then giving his thigh a slap, she pointed toward the railing of the deck and the yard beyond. “My boy is back, and there’s blood on the air. Go on, shoo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ran long, like the last one, because apparently there’s no stopping me when I start writing about Hale parties. I tried to cram it all into one chapter, but it didn’t work, so it’s been split again. On the plus side, that means Chapter 19 is nearly finished, and should be up next weekend.
> 
> Also, my personal face claim for Bryony's ex-husband is probably Terence Stamp.


	19. Wolf Moon: It's Not A Deer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for animal death & meat preparation, none of it graphically described. We continue in the proud tradition of sinister fluff.

“Your mom is insane.” It was a strong start, Stiles thought, but then he had to ruin the momentum by addressing the elephant in the room. Or, whatever the hell it was. “What the hell is that? Is that a deer?”

“No.” Peter grunted as he hefted the frankly enormous carcass up from where it had been draped over his shoulders, and dropped it on the grass with a weighty, wet thud. It was covered in shaggy, somewhat bloody brown fur, split open with a ragged tear along its stomach. Its antlers were so incredibly broad, Stiles was pretty sure he'd barely be able to span them tip to tip if he spread both arms.

It sure looked like a deer. A very big, very dead deer.

“Oh.” Stiles took a second to absorb in the grisly sight Peter made at the moment, with dark, rusty smears and a few mottled green and brown stains all over his shirt and jeans, and streaks of drying blood trailing up his bare forearms. And his face. Jesus god, Peter had blood on his chin. “Okay, is it a couple of dudes in a very authentic deer costume, having a particularly bad day?”

“It’s an elk, Stiles.” Peter had the audacity, the _gall_ , to huff out a breathy laugh. “Rare around here. Rarer now.”

“An elk.” Basically a very big freaking deer, but whatever. “Why do you have an elk? Peter, did you kill this elk?” It was a stupid question, and he knew it. Stiles waved one hand in front of Peter's face, banishing whatever smartass response the guy was primed to set loose. “Of course you did. _Why_ did you kill the elk?”

“Because I finished up with a couple of challenges and got bored? Why are you angry?” Before Stiles could articulate precisely what was wrong with this entire situation, Peter’s eyebrows took a sudden dip, from high and questioning, to low and furrowed. “What the hell did my mother say? Are the twins alright? I knew I should have put more wolfsbane in that goddamn wine.”

Oh shit, the twins.

“You gotta go.” Ignoring the thick, cloying stench of iron and musky elk, Stiles closed the distance between them and grabbed Peter by the elbow. It was a relatively blood-free spot, on first glance. “Go, get cleaned up before my kids see you like this, you nutcase. Change your shirt, wash your hands— do me a personal favour and brush your teeth, for the love of god. Just, dial back on the gore, like, forty percent.”

When Peter looked pointedly at the eviscerated elk, which had to be at least six feet long and probably ridiculously heavy, Stiles threw his hands up in the air.

“This is fine,” he said, which was true for certain values of _fine_. “This is _Circle of Life_ stuff; I can sell this, maybe. Disturbingly enough, this is not their first animal corpse, even if it is the first one that’s the size of a freaking Volkswagen Golf. But I have no idea how they’re going to react to you, all—” He waved, indicating the stains and the general spree murderer vibe Peter was currently giving off. Before he could think of a good comparison to describe this gruesome mess, the air was split by an all too familiar squeal.

“Uncle Peter, come play!” Malia was a bullet, too fast for Stiles to even hope to catch, even if he’d had more warning. Peter managed to snag her when she leapt at him, which was great, since the alternative would have been a tumble and possibly tears. But also not so great, since Peter was now getting half-dried elk blood all over her favourite shark shirt.

Well, Stiles hoped most of it was elk blood, not that dude Colin’s blood. Either way, it was going to be hell to get the stains out once they set.

They were standing at the edge of the treeline, but nowhere near the neat path Peter had followed out to what Stiles presumed was _the ring_. Peter hadn’t come back from the woods the way he’d gone in. They were also gradually attracting an audience of curious children, of various ages. No one was screaming about the dead elk yet, which was nice. The Hale kids were probably used to this crap.

“Oh, _cool_ ,” Malia said, clinging to Peter’s neck but goggling at the elk. Stiles sighed, wearily unsurprised, then looked down when a little hand wrapped around his fingers. Scott’s grip was tight, and the wide-eyed expression on his face as he stared at the elk was far less enthusiastic than his sister’s.

“Dad,” Scott said, in a very small voice. “Is that Bambi’s dad?”

Oh fuck. Oh no.

“What? No, no buddy.” Dropping into a squat, Stiles gently pried himself free of his son’s hand, only so he could wrap one arm around Scott’s narrow shoulders. “It’s not Bambi’s dad, I promise. Bambi’s a deer, right? This is an elk. Totally different. Different species.”

“Bambi doesn't, he doesn’t have a mom. H-he needs his dad. Dad, he needs—” Scott’s eyes were wet and shiny, like big brown river rocks, and he was biting his lower lip to try and hide its trembling. His words came wetly, in broken little hiccups. Stiles was going to punch Peter directly in the dick the next time they had a minute alone.

The biggest problem at the moment was the crowd of children milling around; Scott’s soft heart was business as usual, but dealing with the potential embarrassment was something else entirely. Stiles had always insisted that crying was okay, normal and healthy and nothing to be ashamed of, but the reactions of other kids could ruin a good lesson.

“Scotty,” Malia said, questioning, and squirmed in her perch against Peter’s shoulder. Her eyes were flickering gold. To his credit, Peter looked very aware and very cautious of the minefield he’d dragged them all into, but he was keeping his mouth shut. Smart.

Scott shook his head vehemently, and Malia stopped wriggling, though Peter set her down anyway. On her own feet again, she padded over and wedged her way into the hug without any hesitation, squishing her face into her brother’s neck and wrapping her arms around his ribs.

“C’mon, peanuts,” Stiles said quietly, pressing a kiss against the crown of Scott’s head. “We’re going to go sit for a bit, maybe have a juice, yeah?”

“Hey pups,” Peter said, louder, addressing the group and drawing attention. “If you’re staying to watch, you’re pulling your weight and helping me dress this thing. Otherwise, scram.”

There was a shuffle, as some kids moved closer, and others decided to make their escape, and Stiles used the commotion to hustle Scott away without any drama. The twins had their arms linked at the elbows, while Stiles took up the rear.

“Scott, wait! Lia!” They’d barely made it a dozen steps when a shout stopped them short. Derek caught up to them, hanging back skittishly, and shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pockets. “I got— If you want, I got colouring books in my room. And Legos. D'you like Legos?”

Which was how Stiles ended up leaving his kids sprawled over the floor in the Hales’ living room, surrounded by big plastic totes of Lego bricks that Stiles and Brendan had lugged down from Derek’s room. No hiding away unsupervised on a full moon, but keeping the party indoors and downstairs was fine.

Malia probably wouldn’t have the patience to stay still for very long, but she was plastered to her brother’s side for the moment, building a slapdash tower so she could knock it down right after, giggling like the world’s most adorable Godzilla. Stiles had taken the time to grab wet wipes and a change of clothes for her out of the Kia, which meant she wasn't smeared with blood anymore; he'd figured that was probably an important thing to get out of the way before his dad showed up.

Derek looked totally content, methodically snapping bricks together and explaining to the Stilinski twins all about the Mars Rover he was going to build. Scott seemed suitably distracted, listening raptly to Derek’s chattering, and asking questions, too.

Stiles watched them for a while, pitching in with the construction efforts, until he was fairly confident there wasn’t going to be a delayed crying jag. Then he slipped back out onto the deck. He gave Brendan a friendly tap on the arm as he passed, which had about as much give as punching a brick wall.

“Thanks for the assist, man.”

“No problem,” Brendan said, leaning on the railing, nursing a beer. “Derek doesn’t like crowds, anyway. He’ll put up with it for a while, for family, but it always wears him out. It’s nice that he’s got company.”

Stiles didn’t mention it, but he did notice that Brendan had spent pretty much the entire afternoon split between the kitchen and the deck, only rarely venturing down into the yard where most of the guests were mingling. He was busy cooking for all these people, sure, but maybe it was more than that.

“Pretty sure Scotty appreciates the company too,” Stiles said, wondering if he should stick around, or give Brendan his space. Sometimes it was nice to have company, after all. Then a familiar figure in olive green caught his eye. “Hey, is that my dad?”

“Yeah, he just got here, with a woman,” Brendan said, and yep, there was Melissa too, with pink scrubs under her jacket. And Bryony, talking with them both. As Stiles watched, the trio started to laugh loudly about something. “They’ve been talking with Bea for a few minutes.”

“That’s Dad’s girlfriend, Melissa,” Stiles explained, steeling himself. “Gonna go say hey.”

Brendan nodded. “Good luck, bud.”

Heading down the deck stairs and starting across the yard, Stiles couldn’t help but wonder if Brendan had ever been subjected to a similar interrogation-slash-intimidation. That _good luck_ had sounded meaningful, possibly even empathetic. Like an acknowledgement of some terrible, shared experience. Brothers in Bryony Hale related trauma.

Maybe he was reading too much into things.

“—forgot the word in Portuguese,” Bryony was saying, as Stiles jogged up. “So he’s trying to mime it, and you can imagine— Ah, Stiles dear, there you are.”

“Yeah, here I am.” He caught Melissa in a one-armed hug, and smiled at his dad.

“How are you doing, son?” John clapped him on the back. “How are the kids? Malia doing okay?”

“Everybody’s fine. They just headed inside a minute ago; Derek’s got a ton of Lego, and they’re having a blast.” There were noticeable lines of tension around John’s eyes, and unmistakable worry in the stiff way he was holding himself, and Stiles knew why. “They’re being really good about staying out of the woods. No problems at all.”

“That’s because they’re good kids,” John said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Stiles didn’t press the issue. “Now, I smell barbecue, and because it’s a party, _my_ kid is going to be good and let his old man indulge.”

“Within reason,” Melissa added, sending Stiles a wink. “Because if you show up at the ER later tonight with indigestion, I swear I’ll have your stomach pumped.”

“Do they often gang up on you, John?” Bryony asked archly, and Stiles narrowed his eyes. Standing up like this, he loomed over her by a foot of height, maybe more, but he wasn’t under the delusion that she found him even slightly intimidating. She smiled back at him, sweet as honey.

“These two? All the time.” John chuckled, laying one hand on Melissa’s back. “I’m lucky that way. Now, pretty sure even I can follow my nose, since it smells so— What the hell is _that_?”

“What? Oh, that would be an elk,” Stiles said, turning to see what had his dad gawking. “Or, a former elk. And the dude spraying it with the hose, for some reason, is Peter.”

In the time Stiles had spent inside getting the kids settled, Peter had been busy. The carcass was strung up from a tree branch, skinned pink and missing its head.

“An _elk_?” John seemed pretty damned shocked, but then again, he hadn’t been hanging out with Beacon Hills answer to the Addams Family all afternoon. “And Peter? That’s Peter?”

“Oh my,” Melissa said. “That’s... certainly impressive.” It wasn’t entirely clear whether she was referring to the size of the elk, or the fact that Peter was stripped to the waist, with wet hair slicked back and water glistening as it beaded over the dense, rippling muscles of his naked torso. Stiles agreed, either way.

“I didn’t think elk were in season this time of year,” Bryony said, perfectly conversational, while totally selling out her son to the cops. “Or deer, for that matter. It’s why we usually have boar on the Wolf Moon; I’m not sure what Peter was thinking.”

“No, elk are definitely not in season.” John sounded entirely unamused, and holy shit, this was perfect. Stiles had absolutely no guilt about playing along.

“Hey Dad, if you want to go have a talk with Peter, I can put a plate together for you.” If Stiles survived Bryony, Peter could suffer through an introductory chewing out with Sheriff John Stilinski, and possibly a fine for hunting off-season. “No veggie burgers, I swear.” John shook his head, frowning.

“I should— I didn’t come by start a hassle.” It wasn’t a refusal.

“It won’t be any trouble, John,” Bryony said. “Really. You’re simply doing your job. And you know how important keeping the Pack within the bounds of human law is to Talia.”

“Yeah,” John said after a long moment, his momentary hesitance evaporating in favour of his steely cop face. It was almost too easy. “Okay, yeah, I’ll just go have a talk with him. Be right back.”

After all the shit Stiles had dealt with in the past couple of hours, there was something poetic and viciously satisfying about throwing Peter to the proverbial wolves. The razor-sharp smile splitting Bryony’s face seemed to indicate she felt the same way. The fact that she was an equal-opportunity asshole, rather than simply getting her jollies from dragging Stiles over the coals, was bizarrely reassuring. Peter had warned him, and he’d known it intellectually, but seeing proof was something else.

“I can hardly wait to see the look on Talia’s face,” Bryony said, watching John stride across the yard. “If he manages to get himself arrested.”

Melissa was glancing between Bryony and Stiles, obviously surprised by their inappropriate mirth about the scene about to unfold. It was all Stiles could do to keep from laughing out loud.

 

* * *

 

By the time Melissa and his dad took off, both of them headed into work for the night, it was late— later than Stiles had intended to stay. Everytime he thought about gathering his kids and heading home, however, something would distract him. The evening was really starting to creep in now, and moonrise was coming up too fast. At this point, putting Malia in the car might be more trouble than it was worth.

“I can’t believe you sicced your father on me,” Peter said, flopping down to sit on the grass. He leaned against the wooden lawn chair Stiles was stretched out in, and gave the back of Stiles’ calf a pinch.

“I can’t believe you killed Bambi’s dad.” It was safe to say it, with Scott in the Hales’ living room, and Malia on the other side of the yard, wrestling with some other kids. He lowered his voice for the next part, however; for the sake of any children nearby, and also on the very good chance that Bryony was lurking somewhere in hearing range. “The parental talk payback is a bitch, huh?”

“I warned you,” Peter said airily. “More than once, but you didn’t listen. She’s a natural disaster in a Westwood blouse. Malevolence incarnate.”

“Great, so you get a stern lecture, and I get my soul scourged. It’s been a busy afternoon.”

“It’s Wolf Moon.” Peter shrugged, as if that explained everything. One of his hands curled loosely around Stiles’ ankle, fingers sneaking under the cuff of his jeans. “How’s Scott?”

Stiles leaned back, lacing his hands over his stomach.

“He’s okay. My boy’s a sentimental little dude, but he bounces back. Though I’m pretty sure I was as surprised as you were. Like I said, not their first dead animal. They’ve never met a squirrel corpse they didn’t try to poke with a stick.” They were definitely _their father’s kids_ , according to Stiles’ dad. Half the time, it sounded like a lament rather than an observation. “I think he just got a bit overwhelmed, with the party and everything, and it caught up with him. No worries; he’s good.”

“I’m glad. I certainly didn’t intend to upset him.” There wasn’t any further apology forthcoming, but Stiles wasn’t exactly surprised about that. Peter might teach sharing and caring, or whatever, but he wasn’t the sweet kindergarten teacher stereotype, fawning over the kids. In any case, it hadn’t been deliberate, and Scott wasn’t worse for wear.

“How long ‘til moonrise, do you think?” Stiles had an app on his phone to let him know, but the accuracy of shifter senses for this kind of thing couldn’t be discounted.

“It’s coming up now.” Peter turned, propping his chin on Stiles’ knee. The blue of his eyes brightened, glowing stark and electric in the warm, fading light of sunset. “If you didn’t want to be stuck here for the night, you may have missed your chance.”

“I think we’ll live.” Reaching out, Stiles combed back some of Peter’s hair. The dousing with the hose had done a number on whatever product he used, and the results were tousled, and sort of fluffy. He’d also changed his clothes, and the sweatpants and v-neck t-shirt combo softened him even further. It was much less polished than his typical look, but it was good— comfortable. “Hey, if things do start to go south, you think you could drive us home? While I sit in the back with Malia?”

“Of course.” Stiles’ fingernails were short, mostly bitten down, but scratching them against Peter’s scalp still made the man arch into the touch. “You know you’re welcome to stay, though. We’ve had some experience dealing with young wolves and full moons. And there’s plenty of space in the basement, if you want more privacy.”

“We’ll see how things pan out.” He’d remembered to bring his glasses, and the solution for his contacts; they were still in the car, along with spare clothes, blankets, and a couple of the kids’ favourite soft toys. Not that he’d been planning to stay, but it was better safe than sorry.

Peter hummed, with his head still resting on Stiles’ leg and no apparent intention of moving.

“How does it feel,” he asked, looking up at Stiles, with half-lidded eyes faded back to ordinary blue. “Having dived straight into the deep end? Wolf Moon isn’t my usual choice for a second date, shockingly enough.”

“Yeah, no shit. It’s, uh.” Licking his lips, Stiles considered his answer carefully. The way Peter’s attention honed in on the flick of his tongue was a definite bonus. “It’s pretty weird, but not too weird. It’s nice, having a big family around, even if they’re not mine. And the kids are loving life right now, so that’s a plus. But hang on a second: who said this was our second date? Talia invited me, remember?”

“I said, just now. Try to keep up.” Peter’s eyes flashed when Stiles gave the shell of his ear a retaliatory tweak. “Oh, and since I got stuck with a three hundred dollar fine, I’m going to count that as paying for dinner.”

“Dinner _and_ a show,” Stiles corrected, smirking. “If you hadn’t been such a smartass, he would’ve let you go with a warning. But who knows, maybe you can convince the Sheriff's son to put in a good word for you, get that fine forgiven.”

“Thanks for the tip, but I think I’ll just keep charming his grandchildren, and see where that gets me. Maybe even try some bribery. They’re easier to please, and far less vindictive than their father.”

“Oh, you sweet summer child. You have no idea what my spawn are capable of. That’s adorable.”

“Maybe not.” In a move too quick for Stiles to follow, Peter braced his hands on the arms of the lawn chair and heaved himself up. Stiles jerked out of his lazy slouch, but there was nowhere to go; he was boxed in, while Peter loomed over him with one knee planted on the seat of the chair, in the vee of Stiles’ spread thighs.

The low, whining sound that eked its way out of Stiles’ throat was entirely unintentional, but it made Peter’s eyes flash again. This was dangerous in possibly the least appropriate sense. There couldn’t have been a single reasonable thought left in Stiles’ head, because yanking Peter down into his lap was his initial instinct— an instinct he managed to suppress, fortunately, but still.

“I’m sure there are a lot of things I don’t know about you yet,” Peter said, leaning just a bit closer and taking a deep, shameless sniff. His smile looked _hungry_ , smug as hell, and painfully attractive. “About all three of you. But I’m eager to learn, and very, very curious.”

“Lucky me,” Stiles said, possibly a little breathless, and then it was his turn to get preoccupied by a quick, pink flash of tongue as Peter wet his lips.

“Anytime you’d like to try getting luckier, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m game.”

And just like that, Peter was straightening up, leaving Stiles sprawled over his chair and precariously close to having a situation in his pants.

“I’m going to keep an eye on the pups for a while,” Peter said, and it was patently unfair that anyone's ass could look that good in a pair of plain black sweats. “Start thinking of where you’d like to go for date number three.”

 _Straight to your bed_ wasn’t the classiest answer, even if it was the one on the tip of Stiles’ tongue.

 

* * *

 

Usually, Stiles tried to squeeze in a nap sometime during the day of a full moon. Afterward, the work of keeping Malia safe and occupied was enough to get him through the night without too much of a struggle.

Wolf Moon with the Hales was different, and not just because Stiles hadn’t had the chance to grab forty minutes of sleep right before dinner. Here, there were so many other kids running around. Most of them were half-shifted, howling and yipping, and falling all over each other in the grass. Between the roughhousing in the yard, and the bonfires, complete with s’mores and creamy hot chocolate, Stiles really didn’t have all that much to do to keep his daughter relaxed, happy, and entertained. With this many shifters around, even the risk of excitement getting out of hand or turning too aggressive was minimal.

Less to do meant less motivation to stay awake, which is exactly why Stiles found himself jerking out of a light doze when someone touched his face.

“Easy,” Peter murmured, coaxing Stiles to relax back into the cushioned rattan sofa where he’d apparently nodded off. The movement made Scott snuffle in displeasure, burrowing closer against Stiles’ chest without waking up. Somebody had laid a soft, woven blanket over them both.

The sky was inky black, broken up by a smattering of stars and the fat, ivory moon, and the woods were a yawning void, but the Hales’ yard was well-lit. The bonfires were still crackling, and solar-powered garden lights were planted everywhere. Round paper lanterns hung from the trees, mirroring the swell of the moon in multitudes of delicate white orbs, and the deck and party tent were covered in ropes of white Christmas lights. It was much more illumination than shifters would need at night, but it certainly helped the humans in the crowd.

“Time is it?” Stiles asked, hoarse and slurring with sleep. “Lia. Where’s Lia?”

“She’s fine.” Peter pointed toward the play fort and surrounding yard, which had been temporarily cordoned off from the woods with a soft mesh fence, shortly before dark. It likely wouldn’t be sufficient to stop a determined escape attempt, but it seemed good enough to slow down any little ones who tried to make an impulsive break for it. And it was supervised, just like Talia had assured him.

Stiles had to squint, but yeah, there was his daughter, hanging upside down on the monkey bars, still going strong. Even from this distance, he could see the golden sparks of her eyes.

“And it’s just past midnight,” Peter continued. “Why don’t you and Scott head inside, grab one of the guest rooms. I’ll show you.”

“No. No way.” Shuffling his ass a couple of inches, Stiles managed to sit up without disturbing the boy conked out on top of him. He adjusted his glasses, where his unintentional nap had skewed them, then made sure Scott was still cocooned in the blanket. “I’m good. I’m awake.”

“Stiles,” Peter started to say.

“Nope, not happening.” Stiles stroked one hand over the back of Scott’s head, and kept his voice to a whisper. “Not a debate. I’m not leaving Lia. I can stay awake; I always do.”

“Okay.” Peter reached up and brushed his knuckles along Stiles’ jaw, trailing down to gently cup the side of his neck. “Then I’d like to volunteer my services to help keep you conscious. Sit up a little more.”

“You do realise Scott’s right here,” Stiles said, but moved where he was directed. Shortly thereafter, his back was plastered against a firm wall of chest, and his hips were cradled between Peter’s thighs.

“I’m going to behave myself,” Peter said, without a hint of a leer or a momentary wandering hand, even as a joke. “But I’m going to be comfortable while I’m doing it. Now, relax.”

“Relaxation—” Stiles was cut off by a jaw-cracking yawn, but pushed through. “Ugh, god. Not exactly the best method for staying awake, man.”

“Trust me.” Peter was so warm, and he was close enough that Stiles could feel breath on his neck as he spoke. “I won’t let you fall asleep, and if you want to rest your eyes a little, I’ll keep watch on the twins. You’re going to trust me with them in September, so why not get an early start?”

“I’ll admit, your logic is sound and you make a good pillow.” Stiles let his eyes drift partly shut, still open enough to see a slit of the world around him. “Seriously, don’t let me sleep.”

“Cross my heart.” Stiles snorted, tired enough to find the kindergarten lingo hilarious, but too aware of Scott to give in to the punchy giggles threatening to bubble up. The kid slept like a log, but if something did manage to wake him, there was a good chance he’d be super fussy.

Most of the adult shifters and the older kids were out in the woods now, but there were several people still lingering around, tending the fires and keeping the younger children wrangled. Not too far away, Bethany was curled up in a papasan chair, with the bottom half of her face lit faintly from the screen of her cell phone. It looked as if she was texting someone— maybe the girlfriend she’d mentioned to Stiles when they’d been munching on s’mores together, if the fond smile softening her face while she hunched over her phone was any clue.

Stiles blinked sluggishly, and by the time his eyes opened again, he saw Bethany quite obviously aiming her phone camera in his direction. She was cupping her cheek in one hand, still smiling. There were enough Christmas lights and lanterns nearby that the cell phone might actually take a halfway visible photo, despite the shadows.

“Your sister’s taking our picture,” Stiles mumbled, shifting enough that he could comfortably lean his head back onto Peter’s shoulder.

“Is that a problem?” Peter asked, very softly, and Stiles grunted something vaguely dismissive. Tucked under the blanket, Peter’s fingers were tracing slow patterns over Stiles’ wrist and forearm, trailing along the bare skin where the sleeve of his hoodie had ridden up. Scott’s steady breathing was shifting into snores, wheezing on every exhale, but it wasn’t anything to worry about.

A few minutes later, the howling started. One voice, at first: a tremulous, oddly mournful baying, coming from somewhere farther out in the forest. Soon enough, another voice joined in, then another, building in strengthening chorus until the night was ringing with noise.

Depending on how the wind was blowing, you could often hear the howling at least halfway across town. Stiles had heard it before, pretty much every year he’d lived in Beacon Hills, but he’d never been this close. It was beautiful, and weirdly unsettling; Stiles couldn’t stop himself from shivering, despite the blanket, and Peter acting like a space heater at his back.

“Hey, Cujo? Shouldn’t you be out there too? Pack bonding?”

“I think I’ve done enough _Pack bonding_ today, thanks,” Peter said, not moving an inch. Their feet tangled together, sticking out from the bottom of the blanket. “Just ask Colin.”


	20. Wolf Moon: Breakfast With Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some violence, injury, and blood in this chapter. Things get a bit wolfy and wild to end our Hale party.

“Peter.” The familiar voice, pitched quietly, and the fact that Talia knew better than to touch him when he was sleeping, meant Peter didn’t jolt awake. He didn’t drift leisurely into consciousness, either. Between one slow breath and the next, he simply woke up, alert but calm, and turned his head slightly to look at his sister.

Talia was crouched down beside the sofa, just out of arm’s reach. She’d put a coat sweater over her dress at some point, her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her bare toes curled in the frosty grass, peeking out from under the hem of her skirt. She looked refreshed and energized in the anemic, early morning sunlight, which was to be expected. She was an Alpha who’d spent the Wolf Moon walking the forest with her Pack around her.

“Good morning,” she whispered, and while Peter didn’t verbalize his response, he did offer a genuine smile. It was a very good morning; Peter hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time. Some of it had to do with the moon, of course— Wolf Moon was always a pick-me-up, as well as a pain in the ass— but the positive influence his current company had on his mood couldn’t be totally ignored.

Stiles was draped over him, maneuvered so they were pressed chest to chest. He was completely pliant and trusting, fast asleep, with his face tucked against Peter’s neck. The Stilinski pups were twined together under the lion’s share of the blanket, tucked into a narrow, warm wedge of space between the back of the sofa, and the two adults lying on it.

Peter hadn’t even broken his promise: Stiles eventually conceded that a short nap probably wasn’t going to end in disaster, but not until Malia finally wore herself out shortly before dawn. After all the excitement of the night, the girl crashed hard, and both pups and their father had been dead to the world ever since. Peter slept lighter, but he’d let himself get some rest, confident that he’d wake up if either of the kids moved.

“Coffee’s on,” Talia said. “And tea, and Bren’s getting started on breakfast. Are you staying?”

He didn’t always stay to share a meal after a full moon. Wolf Moon, especially, since there were invariably more Hales underfoot than should ever be in one place.

“Yeah.” His throat was dry, and the word was a faint, hoarse rasp. Stiles nuzzled against his Adam’s apple, muttering something incomprehensible, but didn’t wake up. The fact that he talked in his sleep really should’ve been a strike against whatever they were doing, but all Peter wanted was to hear more of that nonsense muttering. Preferably while Stiles’ plush lips were pressed up against his skin.

He was vaguely disgusted with himself.  Or felt like he should be, at least.

Talia didn’t say anything else, but the bright, amused glint in her eyes as she observed the scene spoke volumes. It seemed as though she’d decided to give up trying to warn him off, or maybe she was simply feeling sentimental at the moment. Either way, it hardly mattered. Peter had no intention of bowing to his sister’s whims, or letting Stiles slip through his fingers.

She stood, brushing off her skirt, then stepped close enough to cup her hand against his cheek. It wasn’t a domineering gesture, just affectionate, sisterly, and Peter allowed it without any protest. The entire thing only last a moment, and then she was striding off towards the house, leaving a dark trail of dewy footprints.

He waited a short while, listening to the pups’ synced heartbeats, and the slowed thump of Stiles’ sleeping pulse, drumming just off rhythm from his kids’. Peter’s feet were stiff and cold in his sneakers, and he had a crick in his neck, but that would all sort itself out after he had a stretch. Odds were good that Stiles wouldn’t be so lucky, if the few hours they’d spent folded onto this sofa had done his long, lean body any harm.

It seemed a shame to wake him, but there was already coffee on the air. Breakfast would be first come, first served, and there was no mercy in a primarily werewolf household when it came to food. Being late for a meal was not an option if you wanted to eat.

Then again, too many Hales all jockeying for the last slice of toast might engineer the perfect excuse to invite the Stilinskis out for an alternate breakfast instead— Opal’s Diner wasn’t far, and they did particularly good pancakes. There was also a Denny’s a bit farther away. Peter always liked to have a backup plan.

One of his arms was already wrapped around Stiles’ back, holding him close. Carefully, he dragged his hand upward, imagining every sleek muscle and knob of spine he couldn’t feel through all the layers of Stiles’ clothing, until he finally slid his fingers into thick, dark hair.

“Stiles.” Peter gave Stiles’ nape a gentle squeeze, and tipped his own head down enough to rub his nose along Stiles’ forehead, breathing in the scent. Woodsmoke and clean sweat, with lingering traces of the bland shampoo Peter was growing accustomed to. Stiles’ natural scent was thicker than usual, muskier, layered with pine and damp earth, and the faintest tang of blood. Wild and gamey— like a man who’d spent a night with wolves. It made Peter want to taste, to lick, but he settled for having Stiles prone under his hands instead.

“M’wake,” Stiles mumbled after a few moments of impromptu neck massage, as Peter listened to his body work its way gradually back to consciousness. “Mm, yeah. I’m awake.”

“Sort of,” Peter said, brushing his smile over Stiles’ temple in a faint impression of a kiss. He didn’t expect Stiles to tilt his face up, to catch the corner of Peter’s mouth with his own, lips closed but intentions unmistakable.

“Am so.” Stiles kissed him again, brief but perfectly centred this time, before pulling back to rub clumsily at his eyes. His glasses were folded and tucked safely under the sofa. “Morning. Shit, it’s freezing. My ass is so cold, it’s numb.” The urge to palm the ass in question was strong, but Peter refrained, kneading Stiles’ neck and enjoying the blissful expressions his efforts were drawing out.

“That’s because you’re raising a pair of blanket thieves.” Mentioning the kids prompted Stiles to perk up even more, shifting around to get a better look at them. The pups were well cocooned, mostly hidden; tufts of dark hair peeked out from under the lumpy blanket, but that was all.

“Yeah, alright. I think I can put up with butt frostbite for these two. Hey, wanna do me a favour?” Stiles’ left arm, which had been hanging limply off the side of the sofa, snaked up under the hem of Peter’s shirt. Icy fingers pressed against his bare ribs, and Peter hissed, not quite flinching away.

“Son of a _bitch—_ ”

“My hand’s cold too,” Stiles said, tremendously smug. “Shush. Kids are sleeping.”

“You’ll pay for that,” Peter said through gritted teeth, and let a hint of claw extend before ghosting his nails over Stiles’ scalp, making him shiver.

“Counting on it, Cujo.”

 

* * *

 

The kids barely woke up when they were carried into the house, deadweight and boneless as Peter and Stiles got them situated on one of the living room couches.

“They’re zonked for the foreseeable future,” Stiles said quietly, brushing Malia’s bangs away from her forehead. He fiddled with the blanket for another few seconds, then stood up, slinging one arm loosely around Peter’s waist. It was unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. “Caffeinate me.”

They ambled across the foyer and into the kitchen, which was buzzing with a low hum of activity. Even with an audience, Stiles didn’t unlatch himself from Peter’s side, and Peter didn’t have any complaints. Leaving the ball entirely in Stiles’ court in terms of their behaviour with each other had been an excellent decision: it allowed Stiles to gauge his own comfort level, while Peter, with the moon simmering in his blood, only had to worry about reacting. And Stiles had made sure he had plenty of reason to react.

Whatever was developing between him and Stiles, Peter’s initial instinct had been to keep things private, mostly to avoid the meddling of his overbearing, gossipy relatives. He’d been perfectly content to greedily hoard as many of their interactions as possible, getting to know Stiles without involving any nosy family. His personal life was his own damn business, but that was largely a foreign concept in the Hale Pack.

Talia had invited the Stilinskis to Wolf Moon as a test, or a tease, or some kind of move in her larger game. Possibly all of the above. Regardless, she’d forced his hand, dragging this out into the open. Luckily, Peter was adaptable.

Even better, Stiles continually exceeded expectations. Given free rein, he’d decided to play things flagrantly, scenting and touching Peter at every opportunity, with a confident, comfortable intimacy that made the entire thing even more obvious. Of course Peter had revelled in it, and the fact that he’d initiated none of it was even more satisfying.

Stiles had put on quite a show, and if the arm currently curled around Peter’s hips was any indication, he wasn’t finished yet. If there were any members of the Pack who hadn’t been privy to the rumour mill already, they certainly knew now.

Conversation didn’t grind to a halt when he and Stiles stepped into the kitchen, but there were glances. Peter ignored it, herding Stiles toward the coffee pot.

“Morning,” Stiles said, offering a small wave to the room at large, and received a chorus of similar replies from the dozen or so people cluttering up the kitchen.

“Well, you made it through the night.” From her seat at the kitchen table, Bethany lifted her mug in a mock salute. She was bundled up in a thick, knitted shawl, thrown over pyjamas. “Survived the moon, and the family. Congratulations.”

“Survived the Wolf Moon,” Stiles repeated, leaning back against the counter as Peter began putting two coffees together. “Sounds like the sort of thing I need on a t-shirt. But yeah, it was great. I’m exhausted, but really, really great.”

The last part was at least partially directed at Talia and Brendan, who were moving seamlessly around each other as they prepared the food.

“I’m glad,” Talia said, peeling tinfoil off one of the numerous breakfast casseroles that had doubtlessly been assembled a day or two before. As Brendan pulled a pair of steaming hot dishes from the oven, she was right behind him, sliding two more inside to cook. “Help yourself to some breakfast, whatever you like. There’s plenty, and we’ve fed the first wave already.”

“And come sit,” Beth said. “Owen and Tess were headed back outside anyway.” The two cousins in question wasted precisely no time vacating a pair of chairs, taking their empty plates and mugs with them, all without a word of protest.

Peter pressed a coffee into Stiles’ waiting hands, already doctored with obscene amounts of sugar and cream. This may have been the first time he was making Stiles coffee, but they’d discussed it briefly during their first proper date, and Peter remembered Stiles’ ridiculous preferences well enough to make an attempt.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, curling his long fingers around the mug and favouring Peter with a crooked little smile. They were standing in the middle of Talia’s kitchen, surrounded by Hales; Peter was surprised at how intimate the quiet space between the two of them felt, if only for a short moment.

It likely had a lot to do with how rumpled Stiles looked, with his sleep wrinkled clothes and the wild nest of his hair. Behind the crisp black frames of his glasses, his eyes were heavy-lidded and soft, and one of his cheeks was scuffed faintly pink from scratching against Peter’s stubble, sometime during the night. All of it was far too distracting and attractive to consider closely, in their current company.

Peter took a bracing sip of his own coffee; he absolutely didn’t flinch when it burned his tongue, and raised his eyebrows at Beth when he caught her watching him. She smirked shamelessly, ripping a piece off the mutilated pastry on her plate and popping in her mouth.

 

* * *

 

Peter was working his way through a fourth helping of casserole, gradually sating his post-moon hunger, when his mother decided to grace them all with her presence. A hush fell over most of the wolves, and nearly everyone milling near the counters or the kitchen island shuffled respectfully away from the food.

 _Nearly_ everyone, except Stiles, who blithely continued scooping diced fruit onto his plate, and Talia, who was measuring more coffee grounds into one of the percolators.

Bryony paused in the kitchen doorway, paying no attention to any nearby Betas. She was already dressed for the day, in a tailored pantsuit the colour of fresh blood and a crisp white blouse, looking no worse for wear after the moon. The expression on her face as she blatantly looked Stiles up and down seemed to be equal parts curiosity and indulgent amusement.

“Oh, hey,” Stiles said a moment later, when he finally noticed the scrutiny. Peter was forever amazed that humans had managed to avoid being hunted to extinction long enough to claw their way up the food chain, considering how dull their senses were. “Morning, Bea.”

Hammering home a point that Peter was fairly sure he had no idea he was making, Stiles tossed a strawberry into his mouth before heading over to claim his seat again, right beside Peter at the kitchen table.

“Come have some breakfast, Mom,” Talia said immediately, in a heavy-handed attempt to diffuse any tension, while most of the room held its collective breath.

A number of time-honoured formalities had relaxed significantly during Talia’s tenure as Alpha, including the strict hierarchy of Pack mealtime. Peter had never seen his sister break a Beta’s jaw for daring to eat before their Alpha allowed it, for example. His mother, on the other hand, had always been much more traditional, in a lot of respects. Even now, without the Alpha spark, Bryony commanded the same careful deference in most situations. Or _demanded_ it, more accurately.

Peter didn’t realise he’d tensed up so much, until Stiles was bumping against his shoulder, absently offering the plate of fruit as he dropped into his chair. Stabbing a chunk of melon provided a good enough excuse to explain away why Peter suddenly had his claws out, even if he would have preferred to use a fork.

If Bryony happened to be in a particular mood and this turned ugly, chances were very good that Talia would step in. Getting the sheriff’s son mauled would be a public relations disaster and, less cynically, she seemed to sincerely like Stiles. Peter didn’t completely relax, keeping more than half his attention on their mother.

“Good morning,” Bryony said, after dragging out a pointed silence. She could have been addressing the room, but her attention stayed idling on Stiles. She didn’t look even slightly angry, but that hardly meant anything. There were too many quickening heartbeats; it made Peter bristle.

Then, in a blink, Bryony was turning to Peter, crossing her arms in an all too familiar, chiding pose.

“You obviously didn’t do a good enough job beating some sense into Colin.” Peter wiped his hands with a napkin, retracting his claws. “What did you do, try to give him a time-out? I know he’s a mouthy little brat, but this isn’t one of your classes, pup.”

“I handled it,” Peter said. “To Anita’s satisfaction, and my Alpha’s.” That wasn’t precisely true, but it’d become apparent very quickly that Anita wasn’t going to be completely satisfied unless Colin was breathing through a straw. Talia had put her foot down, however, and Peter had limited the damage accordingly. He’d still thrashed the little bastard and broken at least a dozen bones, before pinning him face down in the dirt and proceeding to jerk a few of his fingers out of joint. Peter had fully intended for it to be a precursor to snapping them off one by one, if necessary, but he’d only had to twist one thumb particularly brutally before Colin was finally shrieking an apology for whatever the hell he’d done to offend Anita.  Peter still wasn't entirely clear on all the details, but he didn't especially care either.

Not the bloodiest or most difficult challenge he’d ever won, not by miles, but there was something gratifying about smacking the pup around until he’d lost some of that obnoxious and unearned ego. Especially after he’d decided to call Peter “ _the babysitter_.”

“What’s the issue?” Talia asked, while Brendan took over the coffee preparation.

“See for yourself.” Bryony motioned vaguely toward the kitchen windows, and Stiles immediately turned to look, hooking his elbow over the back of his chair and gawking as much as possible without getting up.

“Holy shit,” Stiles said, and the genuine alarm in his voice had Peter rising to his feet. “Is that—”

“Anita,” Bryony offered. “They’re going to kill each other.”

“Peter,” Talia said, already headed for the door. Peter was barely a step behind.

“Stiles,” he called back without looking. “Stay out of the way.” He didn’t bother telling the man to stay in the house, but hopefully he’d at least have the sense to stay on the damn deck.

The backyard was chaos, but the worst of the violence had apparently happened farther away from the house, close to the treeline. That explained why they hadn’t heard anything from inside the kitchen, with the distracting chatter of various Betas drifting in and out, and the windows all closed. The tent was still standing, along with most of the lawn furniture, except a wooden picnic table that Peter could already see was splintered beyond repair, and a pair of adirondack chairs.

There was a body lying limply in the broken remains of the chairs— probably Casey, by shock of bright ginger hair. If he was dead, they'd have much bigger problems than putting an insolent Beta in his place. And it would basically guarantee that Peter's second meeting with Stiles' father would be even more awkward than the first.

Neither Peter or Talia bothered with the stairs, vaulting easily down onto the lawn and sprinting over to where a small crowd of spectators had gathered. Peter was going to remember every one of these useless rubberneckers later, but for now, he watched with some satisfaction as Talia’s roar made them trip over each other to get the hell out of the way.

Peter had fangs and claws bared already, pushing his shift into his largest, most lupine Beta form. Ridges distended his forehead, and the muscles from his neck downward strained against his skin, thickening. These witless wolves might have stood back and watched while this whole idiotic mess was unfolding, but at least they had the sense to cringe away when he snapped at them.

Talia was more than halfway shifted, not quite taking on her full wolf form, but more bestial than an average Beta. Black fur trailed down either side of her neck, her jaw had elongated to make room for her fangs, and the spread of her shoulders broadened significantly. She was nearly as big as Brendan when she shifted like this; there was audible ripping as some of the seams of her dress gave way. This kind of form was powerful enough to respond to the seriousness of the situation, without giving up her ability to speak.

“ _Stop_ ,” she shouted, booming so loud that the windows of the house likely shook with it, but the two wolves wrestling in the grass didn’t let up. Talia roared again, but Peter was already moving in, gripping Anita by the nape and hauling her off of a snarling, bleeding Colin. He heaved her away a few feet, and immediately backhanded Colin hard enough to fracture his jaw, sending the little prick sprawling across the ground. If he hadn’t been absolutely certain Talia would have his ass for it, Peter would’ve used his claws instead.

“Anita, enough!” Talia’s voice was still thunderous, and dark with fury. It made the hairs on Peter’s neck stand up, even if it wasn’t directed at him. A split second glance backward, and he saw Anita crouched low with her arm wrapped around her pregnant stomach, and Talia looming over her. Anita’s eyes were blazing gold, but at least she seemed to have found her brain again, cowering with her neck stretched long and bare for her Alpha.

Taking his eyes off Colin for even an instant proved to be an annoyance. The stubborn shit didn’t know when to leave well enough alone, that much was already obvious, but then he tried to take advantage of Peter’s wandering attention. Colin leapt, claws out, but Peter was much stronger and easily the superior fighter, even against a younger, quicker wolf.

He caught Colin by the neck and arm, slamming him hard against the ground, knocking him breathless and quite possibly doing damage to his spine or the back of his skull. Peter let his claws dig in deeply into muscle and tendon, inches away from tearing out Colin’s throat, and roared viciously right in his face.

Before Colin could lift his free hand, probably to do something stupid like try to take a swipe at Peter’s eyes, a bare, clawed foot stomped on his wrist, pinning it in place. Peter heard the wet crunch of bone, even over Colin’s pained howl.

“Enough,” Talia said again, grinding her heel down until Colin’s baying faded to desperate whimpers. He was squirming under Peter’s weight, despite the claws in his neck. “Peter, take him out to the ring. Declan, Tessa, make yourselves useful and go with them. I’ll join you after I check on Casey.”

Colin’s hand was a mangled mess when Talia lifted her foot, and as a wound inflicted by an Alpha, it wouldn’t be healing quickly. Peter wasted no time hauling the sniveling Beta to his feet, yanking Colin’s other arm behind his back and keeping a tight, dangerous grip on his throat. The two wolves Talia had ordered to come with them fell into step on either side, golden eyed and clawed as they started marching Colin towards the woods.

“Do not kill him,” Talia snapped, like an afterthought.

“Still so much fun we can have,” Peter said, in a venomous growl against the shell of Colin’s ear, twisting his arm not _quite_ hard enough to force it out of the socket. The shudder he got in return didn’t completely compensate for this bullshit ruining his breakfast, but it was a start.

 

* * *

 

It was over an hour later before Peter trudged back into the house. He was damp, muddy, and pissed off, and his t-shirt was ruined and gaping, shredded when Colin had decided to try making a break for it before Talia had shown up. Colin hadn’t even been the one who’d ended up clawing him; fucking Declan had gotten too enthusiastic about _helping_ , sliced Peter across the chest by accident, then got a broken nose for his trouble.

Brendan was waiting on the deck with the coat sweater Talia had left in the house, covering up his wife and her torn dress, then wrapping her in a hug when she curled her arms around him. Peter left them to it, striding into the mudroom.

Stiles hadn’t been waiting on the deck, which was only mildly surprising. Curiosity might have brought him out for a little while, but it wasn’t a particularly warm morning. Especially since the drizzling rain had started, shortly after they’d taken Colin into the woods. Apparently Stiles had been watching from somewhere, however; he met Peter in the hallway just outside the mudroom, armed with a large, dry towel.

“Jesus,” Stiles said, reaching out to touch the ragged tears in Peter’s shirt.

“It’s nothing.” Compared to the warmth of the house, the wet, clinging cotton felt even clammier, and incredibly unpleasant. Peter hauled the shirt over his head, tossing it back into the mudroom; he’d deal with it later. “You should see the other guy. Is that for me?”

“What? Yeah, oh yeah. Totally. Here.” Peter took the proffered towel, scrubbing it over his face and hair first. Once he moved on to scuffing it over his arms, no longer smothering himself with the inoffensively clean scent of Talia’s laundry detergent, the faint musk of arousal was obvious on the air.

Peter didn’t bother trying to hide his smirk as he slowed the drag of the towel across his bare chest. He was wearing the same sweatpants and dirty sneakers he’d slept in, spare clothes he’d brought specifically because Wolf Moon usually played hell with his wardrobe one way or another. The sweats weren’t anything special, and they’d taken some punishment since yesterday, but they were currently sitting fairly low on his hipbones. Not quite indecent, but apparently quite appealing, if Stiles’ scent and skipping pulse were anything to go by.

“See something you like, sweetheart?” Peter said, slinging the towel over one shoulder and shifting half a step closer, crowding into Stiles’ space. There was blood drying under Peter’s fingernails, and the white terrycloth of the towel had a few incriminating, rusty smears. And yet, Stiles still smelled hot and bothered. It was intoxicating.

“One or two things, yeah,” Stiles said, in a low, breathy voice that made Peter’s mouth water. Before Peter could pin him against the wall, however, Stiles was slipping away, putting some respectable distance between them. “I started a list. Maybe I’ll let you see it, get some feedback right from the source. Later.”

“Later,” Peter echoed, licking his lips, and revelling in the way Stiles’ dark eyes tracked the movement.

“Shit,” Stiles whispered, leaning in temptingly, before he seemed to catch himself. He shook his head, jerking his attention back up to meet Peter’s stare. “Hey, uh, Casey’s pretty much alright, by the way. Bruised, maybe a concussion. Talia sent him and Anita to the hospital anyway, with a couple other Betas, I think? Just to be safe. Didn’t seem like anything was too messed up, though.”

“Good.” Mostly because dealing with a dead human, killed by a werewolf in the backyard of the Hale house, would be no end of trouble. Also, the loss of a Packmate’s partner would be a shared grief, even if Peter didn’t really have any strong personal feelings about Casey, one way or the other.

“So, yeah.” Stiles scratched at his jaw, fidgeting. “Beth told me Colin was probably going to get some serious crap for this. You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Peter studied Stiles for a moment. “I didn’t kill him. Colin’s still alive.”

Not happy, but alive. Talia had meted out the discipline personally, leaving Colin with a few lingering reminders that might smarten him up. She’d also laid down a temporary exile from the Hale house and anything else Pack related. Probationary Omegahood, basically, with the potential to be permanently tossed out on his ass if his attitude didn’t sharply improve.

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles said. “When Beth was filling me in, your mom chimed in too. No wolfy justice death sentences anymore. Bea sounded disappointed about it, but you know, she’s—” Stiles twirled his finger in a spiral at his own temple.

“She’s right behind you,” Peter said, and proceeded to catch Stiles when the man flailed forward in a panic. Pressed up against Peter’s chest, Stiles looked back at the empty hallway, then punched Peter squarely in the shoulder.

“Oh, ha _ha_ , you dick.”

 

* * *

 

“Let me drive you,” Peter said, easily cradling a limp and drooly Malia, while Stiles strapped an equally unconscious Scott into his car seat. Neither of them had stirred yet, but it was barely ten AM, and they’d had a long night. “I can jog back. You didn’t sleep enough.”

“We’ll be fine.” Stiles’ voice was quiet in the cool, still morning. The rain hadn’t lasted long, but the air felt close and damp, like more was on the way. Stiles straightened up out of the car, and held his arms out for his daughter. He got Malia settled next to her brother in short order, carefully closing the car door with a soft thud.

“I don’t mind,” Peter started to say, then shut up at the first touch of Stiles’ fingers against his bare stomach.

“We’ll be fine, Cujo.” Stiles was parked near the end of the driveway, far enough away to give them a modicum of privacy from prying eyes, and possibly even prying ears if they kept their voices low. With Peter’s back to the house, no one inside would be able to see a thing Stiles was doing.

“I’m not explaining to my dad,” Stiles said, while his hand skimmed up Peter’s abs and chest, scratching the edge of a thumbnail along the valley between his pecs. “Why you dropped me off at home, shirtless, while my kids were sleeping in the backseat. He already told me he thinks you’re a jackass.”

“Charming.” Peter was hesitant to guess where this was going, considering their previous false starts, but the curl of Stiles’ hand around the side of his neck, gently urging him forward, was a fairly telling clue.

Stiles tasted like overly sweet coffee and blueberry muffins, with the faintest staleness still clinging from his morning breath. His fingers combed through Peter’s hair, tightening rhythmically when Peter pressed him up against the door of the Kia. The rumbling moan he breathed between their lips as Peter licked into his mouth was pornographic, and it turned into an even deeper, dirtier growl when Peter’s hands pushed up under the hems of his hoodie and shirts, warm palms flattening over the naked skin of his stomach.

It was delicious and drawn out, but still over too quickly. Frotting in Talia’s driveway was probably a bad idea, though. Probably.

“Gorgeous,” Peter murmured, staying close enough to brush his wet mouth against Stiles’ jaw, smearing scent and relishing the way Stiles whined and craned into the touch. “So responsive. You’re going to sound so pretty when my mouth’s on your cock, aren’t you?”

“Oh, _fuck_.” Stiles dipped his head, stealing a harder, much more insistent kiss, filthy and demanding. It lasted half as long, but left Peter’s lips tingling, and his dick threatening to harden in his sweats.

“Later,” Stiles said roughly, panting. The hands in Peter’s hair coaxed him to step back, trailing down his neck before letting him go. “We, uh, still on for Saturday?”

“Tomorrow.” Peter smiled, ravenous already. “Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, could I interest you in some Omegaverse Steter, but with non-traditional A/B/O dynamics and super emphasis on consent? Because I'm writing that. Check it out if it sounds like your thing: [Hey Lover, I Got a Sugarcane](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4683563/chapters/10691264)


	21. Wolf Moon: Let's End With A Bang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeey folks, you should take note that this story is now part of a series. Check out “Glitter Glue Character Cards” to see a fancy set of cards I put together as visual aids for the characters in this AU. I’m really pleased with how they turned out.

When Peter made his way back to the house, Bethany was peeking out of one of the sidelights framing the front door, not even making the slightest attempt to pretend she hadn’t been gawking. She made exaggerated kissy faces at him through the narrow window as he climbed the porch steps, puckering her lips like a fish.

“You know, you’re forty years old,” Peter said, stepping into the foyer. “Not fourteen.”

“I'm not the one necking like a teenager in the driveway.” Unsurprisingly, Beth came at him cooing, with the intention of pinching his cheeks. Peter ducked out of the way, fending her off with the benefit of werewolf speed and a longer reach. “Are you _blushing_? I’m so glad I’ll never know what you smell like right now, oh my _god_ —”

“I hate you so much.” Catching Beth by both wrists, Peter held her arms over her head, which meant approximately at his eye level. She had no hope of wriggling out of his grip, unless she tried to knee him in the groin. It wouldn’t be the first time. “You’re my least favourite sister.”

“Lies and slander.” Bethany stopped trying to struggle, probably in a bid to seem harmless, but Peter easily saw through the ploy. He didn’t let her go, or let down his guard. “I like this one, Repeat. He’s cute, he’s smart, and he doesn’t spook easily. And you’re picking out curtains already, aren’t you, you big sappy puppy.”

“Oh, please.” Peter’s lip curled in multiple layers of disgust. “That’s rich, coming from the woman who once asked a girl to move in together after two dates.”

“I was nineteen,” Beth said defensively, and Peter narrowly avoided her attempt to stomp on his foot. She’d lost the pyjamas and gotten dressed at some point, but thankfully her leather boots didn’t have the stiletto heels Talia usually favoured. “The folly of youth is a completely reasonable excuse for stupid ass decisions. Though I suppose if you’re only as old as _who_ you feel, the boytoy might have bought you a few years—”

“If you two are quite finished,” Bryony said loudly, from the top of the stairs. There was a wheeled suitcase and a leather duffle sitting at her feet. “I’m old, I’m impatient, and I have places to be. Peter, be a dear, and come carry my bags to your sister’s car.”

“You’re going?” It was an inane question, and Peter instantly regretted it, even before his mother rolled her eyes. Bethany’s teasing actually had him surprisingly off-kilter.

“You don’t want to ask,” Beth muttered under her breath, knowing Bryony could hear her anyway, and slipped out of Peter’s loosening grip.

“I have errands to run,” Bryony said, leaving her luggage behind as she started down the stairs. Of course she could have carried them herself, even if the bags were literally full of lead. It was a statement. “And then I’m off to spend a few days with the Lowell Pack.”

“Seriously, Mom?” Resigned to briefly playing valet, Peter was smug in the knowledge that Bethany had the shittier end of the stick today, stuck as chauffeur. Her own fault, really, for shacking up with the Lowells’ emissary. She'd be dropping their mother off when she picked Marin up, more than likely.

Peter headed upstairs, passing Bryony halfway.

“Alpha Deucalion extended the invitation,” she said smoothly, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “Personally.”

“God, why,” Bethany groaned; werewolf senses weren't required to hear the insinuation behind their mother's mock innocence. Peter just shook his head, climbing high enough to snag the bags, then turning back around.

“I can’t believe this is still happening,” he said, even as every one of his self-preservation instincts screamed at him to leave it alone. “Aren't you bored yet? I know opposites are supposed to attract, but for god’s sake, he’s basically a hippie. He makes _Talia_ look like a hardass. What do you two even talk about?”

“Darling,” Bryony said, straightening the collar of her jacket and smoothing back her hair. “We hardly talk at all. That’s what’s so appealing.” When he reached the bottom of the staircase, bags in hand, she reached up and snagged his chin, forcing him to stop and look down at her.

“Not all of us are narcissistic enough,” she said. Her eyes had gone flinty and lupine, glowing cold, electric blue, and the prickle of claws against his skin made him freeze. “To get off on the sound of our own voice, coming from someone else’s mouth. Enjoy your cheeky little human, polish his brass balls, and do not presume to question the company I keep.”

“Touchy,” Peter murmured, careful not to move his jaw too much and get stabbed for his trouble. “I was just curious, Mom. But, as per your usual level of hypocrisy, your business is your business.”

“Oh hell, you are in a snit, aren’t you?” Giving his cheek a hard tap, Bryony released him. Two pairs of icy Beta eyes faded, back to deep brown and muted human blue respectively. Almost immediately, the worst of the crackling hostility drained from the air, as if someone had pulled a plug. Peter glanced at Beth, and found her watching him anxiously, with her lips pressed tightly together and her scent soured with concern.

“From what I’ve seen,” Bryony said, crossing her arms. “Your young man can hold his own. Stop worrying so much; I’m not going to eat him, figuratively or otherwise. Now settle down, pup, before I decide to punch a few holes in you and let some of that tension bleed out.”

 

* * *

 

> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Home safe n sound_
> 
> _Kids r still asleep but gonna wake em soon_
> 
> _Cross ur fingers they might sleep tonight_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Good._
> 
> _Though I may never forgive you. Driving you home was my excuse to avoid staying to help clean up._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Dude u gotta tell me when I’m supposed to b ur accomplice_
> 
> _Hey tell em u already did ur part taking out the trash_
> 
> _When u went full ufc meets animal planet n beat the shit out of Colin_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _True. And I did that twice, which has to count for something._
> 
> _If he pushes for a third, I may need an alibi instead of an accomplice._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Hey son of the sheriff here_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Ah, yes. I should probably avoid incriminating myself on your phone, shouldn’t I?_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _?????_
> 
> _Dude I meant I’m A+++ alibi material_
> 
> _Sheriff's son and a kindergarten teacher? Come on_
> 
> _On paper we’re model citizens_
> 
> _Keep up Cujo_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _I see._
> 
> _You’re right, of course. What was I thinking._
> 
> _You know, you’re a constant source of pleasant surprises, sweetheart._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _That’s a nice way of saying I’m weird and u dig it_
> 
> _Hey guess what_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> “ _Weird” is very subjective, with some unnecessarily negative connotations, I think. I’d rather go with “fascinating” if I had to describe you in one word. Or captivating, maybe._
> 
> _What, baby?_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Well I was gonna say “ur weird and I dig it too”_
> 
> _But then u had to go and get all srs_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _I could say I’m sorry, but I’m not._
> 
> _You can be as self-deprecating as you want, but I find you genuinely fascinating. I’m very serious about that._
> 
> _Does that bother you?_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Idk man_
> 
> _I’m a 26yo part time sales clerk w two little kids who still lives w his dad_
> 
> _I guess I just don’t see what’s so damn fascinating but whatever_
> 
> _I’m too tired to talk abt this rn_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Then we’ll drop it, if that’s what you want._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Thx_
> 
> _Baby? Srsly?_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Maybe. Do you not like it?_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Idk_
> 
> _I don’t not like it?_
> 
> _Yeah I know that’s a dbl negative and u just twitched_
> 
> _I don’t hate it_
> 
> _I might maybe like it_
> 
> _I’m not sayin stop_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Alright. But if you happen to decide you don’t like it, tell me._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Yeah ok_
> 
> _I’m gonna go shower_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Another reason I should have driven you home. I could have scrubbed your back._
> 
> _I'd be very thorough too. Take care of you like you deserve after such a long, hard night._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Wow man what a generous offer_
> 
> _Maybe I’ll take an extra long shower, think abt how generous and thorough u might b_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _I’m looking forward to exceeding your expectations._
> 
> _For the record, how’s that situational ban on sexting holding up right now?_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Depends. Promise u can keep ur phone secret and safe from nosy grabby hales and I’ll think abt it_
> 
> _Cross ur heart and hope to lose a testicle if u fuck this up istg_
> 
> _Ur mom doesn’t need more ammo and I like being able to look ur sisters in the eye_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Sweetheart, I promise, this phone isn’t going to leave my sight._
> 
> _Mom and Beth left a little while ago anyway. And that's not Talia's usual brand of snooping. Too crass._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Hmmm_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Stiles?_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Keep ur phone on u Cujo_
> 
> _;)_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Absolutely._
> 
> _Enjoy your shower, baby._

 

* * *

 

A goddamn winking emoticon shouldn’t have been able to make his blood heat up like this. Peter stared down at his phone for a second or two longer, then locked it before tucking it into the pocket of his sweats.

Getting their mother and her luggage loaded into Beth’s car had to count as pitching in with clean-up. Even if she’d never admit it, Talia would definitely appreciate the sudden absence of withering judgement.

And anyway, there were still plenty of other Betas milling around. Talia could put them to work getting the yard back in order and doing the dishes, and whatever else needed to be done to turn a house party for a hundred wolves back into a home for five. He probably wouldn’t even be missed.

He would much rather appreciate whatever Stiles decided to send him in the privacy of his own apartment, instead of hanging around here, keyed up and stinking of frustration. It wasn’t a difficult decision at all, really.

There was only major flaw in this escape plan: Peter needed to make a quick getaway, if he was going to avoid Talia. If anyone was going to try and rope him into staying longer, it would be her, and he was keen on avoiding that potential confrontation altogether.

The fact that he was loitering on the front porch, perfectly positioned to stay out of view of any windows, should have been a point in favour. There was currently a clear path, less than fifty Talia-free feet, between him and his car. He could be in the driver’s seat and gone in less than two minutes.

Unfortunately, his keys were in his coat, which was still in the house.

“Shit,” he hissed, leaning over ever so slightly to peer through one of the sidelights, listening for voices or heartbeats through the door. It wasn’t _critical_ to avoid Talia— she could technically insist that he stay, as his Alpha, but he highly doubted she’d press him like that over something this trivial. It would just be neater all around if he could slip away unnoticed.

That way, he’d also avoid any potential conversations about the Stilinskis, which was a definite bonus. Although he was admittedly very curious to get a read on Talia’s mood, after Stiles had publicly refused to submit to her. Not in any passive way, which could have be explained by human ignorance of werewolf social cues, but assertively. Blatantly, with obvious awareness of at least the basic jist of the message he was sending.

Peter wasn’t quite curious enough to stick around now, though, with his phone burning a hole in his pocket, and the faint flavour of sweetness still on his tongue. He’d mostly been teasing when he’d mentioned sexting this time, but if Stiles was game, Peter wasn’t about to refuse.

Easing the front door open slowly, Peter edged inside the foyer. There were a handful of heartbeats in the kitchen, including Brendan humming along with the low murmur of the radio. There was only a single person he could hear in the living room, so he stuck closer to the left of the hallway as he moved farther into the house; the coat closet was built into the side of the staircase, nearly within reach.

“Other than that little meltdown with Laura, they had a great Wolf Moon.” But of course the person he heard in the living room would be the one person he was trying to avoid. Of _fucking_ course. “I’ll give you a call tonight, and you can talk to them yourself.”

Talia looked up, catching Peter’s eye as he padded quietly past the open living room doors. She had one of the portable phones for the landline pressed to her ear, and it looked like she’d been watching something out the front windows, toward the driveway. She didn’t wave him down, which meant she might not have been spying on him, specifically. There was still a chance he was in the clear.

“They missed their grandad,” Talia said into the phone, and Peter easily recognised the voice he could hear answering from the other end of the call.

“It was her turn, Talia,” their father said, and Peter kept walking, even more eager to leave now.

“I know that, Dad. But it’s a big yard, and you’re both adults. Don’t you think you could try to be in the same zip code without killing each other, just for a few hours?”

The chances of that were slim to none, but Peter kept that opinion to himself, digging his coat out of the tightly packed closet and heading for the door again.

“Oh, Dad, Peter’s right here.” This time, Talia did hold up a hand, gesturing for him to wait. Peter very nearly ignored her and kept going, but morbid curiosity made him pause instead. “Do you want to talk to him?”

The silence through the phone was heavy, and Peter looked at his sister, raising his eyebrows. She never could leave well enough alone.

“Are you kidding me,” he said quietly, but with definite bite. His own phone chimed in his pocket, receiving a text. At nearly the same time, their father spoke again.

“I imagine I’m the last person he’d like to talk to, darling.” Maybe not the very last, but certainly somewhere near the bottom five. “It’s alright. Your brother’s always been the sort to hold a grudge, but he inherited that honestly. Just tell him I hope he’s doing well.”

Biting his tongue, Peter offered Talia a sharp, dismissive wave before she could say anything else, then strode out of the house and climbed into his car, all without looking back.

As he drove away, he could see Talia in his rearview mirror, watching him through the window.

 

* * *

 

Peter pulled out his phone to check his messages while he idled at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. Rather disappointingly, the text wasn’t a photo. It wasn’t even from Stiles.

 _What was all that about?_ Bethany had sent him. _Were you just stirring up shit for the hell of it? Because you’re not the one stuck in a car with her for the next two hours, you dick._

 _Stop texting while you’re driving._ Peter replied, without acknowledging a hint of irony. _I could have said something about how if unbearable and English is still her type, she could have saved time and money and stayed married to dad. Aren’t you proud of my restraint?_

Distraction behind the wheel wasn’t quite as dangerous with werewolf reflexes, even if there weren’t any official exceptions in the traffic laws. The light turned green, the car ahead of him started to move, and Peter set his phone on the passenger seat before pulling away.

A few more text alerts chimed at him, but he ignored them. His apartment wasn’t far; Bethany’s whining could keep that long.

 

* * *

 

> **From Beans:**
> 
> _Your survival instinct is a notch higher than suicidal. Congratulations._
> 
> _And I’m not driving. I’m sitting in the CVS parking lot waiting for mom. No way in hell am I tagging along with her in there._
> 
> _I made that mistake the last time I got stuck driving her to Duke’s. All I needed was toothpaste. I thought I was safe._
> 
> _She ended up dragging me down the family planning aisle and discussing the pros and cons of different brands of flavoured lube. Loudly. Sales clerks got reeled in. Taste tests happened. It was a whole production._
> 
> _Hey why the hell doesn’t she torture you and Tal like this? Why am I the only one who gets to be supporting actress in sex shop community theatre?_
> 
> _It’s not like I’m a prude, I just don’t want comprehensive details about the freaky shit mom gets up to. With a guy who’s basically my girlfriend’s boss._
> 
> _You know Duke comes over for dinner at my house sometimes? There are visuals I can’t get out of my head, and intrusive thoughts about his dick make chatting over antipasto a bit awkward._
> 
> _For godsake I’m a lesbian. Penis obsession isn’t a problem I ever expected to deal with._
> 
> _Peter are you ignoring me?_
> 
> **To Beans:**
> 
> _Not ignoring you, I was driving. Just got home._
> 
> _Heading up to see what kind of disaster Hobbes left for me._
> 
> _And mom tortures you about her sex life because you’re the only one of us who’s not desensitized._
> 
> _Werewolf senses, remember?_
> 
> **From Beans:**
> 
> _Ew ok that’s disgusting. I didn’t think of that._
> 
> _No need for details._
> 
> _I take it all back. I’ll happily accept the occasional public embarrassment if I means I never had to actually hear anything._
> 
> **To Beans:**
> 
> _Or smell anything._
> 
> _Lucky you._
> 
> **From Beans:**
> 
> _Dear god shut up_
> 
> **To Beans:**
> 
> _And it was constant. Why do you think I smoked so much and had headphones practically glued to my skull when I was a teenager?_
> 
> _Our parents fucked almost as much as they fought._
> 
> **From Beans:**
> 
> _Jesus Peter_
> 
> _You are such an asshole_
> 
> **To Beans:**
> 
> _True. And yet I’m still your favourite brother._
> 
> _Got to go. Hobbes left me a few thoughtful gifts to deal with._
> 
> _I’ve never skinned a cat before. But there’s a first time for everything._
> 
> **From Beans:**
> 
> _You’re my only brother you brat._
> 
> _Say hello to the hellspawn for me._
> 
> _Does Stiles know you’re a package deal with a furry little demon baby of your own?_
> 
> _What a sweet blended family you’ll be. Like the Brady Bunch from hell._
> 
> **To Beans:**
> 
> _Goodbye Bethany._
> 
> _Have fun with mommy dearest._

 

* * *

 

There wasn’t actually any mess waiting when Peter stepped into his apartment. There also wasn’t any cat. When he couldn’t hear the quick staccato of a tiny heartbeat, Peter didn’t even bother looking. If Hobbes wanted to vacation with the harpy downstairs, probably getting fattened up to put in a pie or something equally gruesome, he was more than welcome to tempt fate for a while longer.

He’d gotten a couple of texts from Stiles while he was driving, but he hadn’t checked them yet. Locking the front door behind himself, Peter stripped out of his coat and sneakers, meandering into his apartment in nothing but sweatpants.

> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Didn’t chicken out_
> 
> _Delayed by my dad. He wanted deets abt last night before he went to bed_
> 
> _Shower time now_

There was a very promising photo included under the texts, and Peter tapped it with his thumb, bringing it fullscreen.

Peter had hoped Stiles’ delightful smattering of moles didn’t end at his neck, and he wasn’t disappointed. Deep brown spots flecked over the lean lines of Stiles’ bare chest and stomach like drops of ink, stark against his pale skin. It was a study in delicious contrasts: such a tight little body, slim and sleek, but with enough dark, wiry hair in the centre of his chest and creeping up from the waistband of his unbuttoned jeans to dismiss any ideas of Stiles looking too young or smooth. The broad, enticingly powerful span of his shoulders, and his pretty little nipples, petal pink and delicate, begging for the drag of Peter’s teeth. Hip bones so sharp, Peter wanted to cut himself on them, even as he licked into the impossible softness of Stiles’ plush red mouth, just barely visible at the top of the photo.

The hint of shower curtain in the background made the location obvious, and the lighting in the Stilinskis’ bathroom left something to be desired, but the picture was still the most alluring thing Peter had seen in a long time.

Peter took a deep breath, inhaling the pungent musk of his own arousal, and flopped down on his couch. He held his phone in one hand, giving his stomach a leisurely, teasing scratch before plucking the drawstring of his sweats, undoing the knot. Grinding up a bit into the heel of his hand, Peter palmed himself through the fabric, growling softly as his dick started to firm up in earnest.

He’d been simmering in low-grade arousal since yesterday afternoon. Now that he wasn’t tripping over family every five seconds, he could actually do something about it.

Taking another long look at the photo— the thought of marking up that fair skin, mapping between every mole with blotches of purple and red, made Peter’s mouth water— Peter tapped his thumb to bring himself back to the messages.

> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _So gorgeous, baby._
> 
> _Are you in the shower yet? I hope you’re taking your time and enjoying yourself._
> 
> _I certainly won’t rush with you. I want to draw it out, savor it._
> 
> _I want to learn every gorgeous inch of you. Let you feel everything so slow and sweet until you come apart for me._

There wasn’t any immediate response; Stiles probably was in the shower. Peter liked to imagine each ding of Stiles’ phone sending a thrill through him, making his heart pound and his cock jump, slick and wet under the spray. Stiles taking himself in hand, listening to Peter’s messages arrive and getting harder, just from the anticipation and potential.

Sliding his hand under his waistband, Peter pushed his loose sweats down enough to free his own cock, which was getting very interested in the proceedings. He returned to the photo, thinking about the heady sounds Stiles had made from just a couple of kisses.

He’d take Stiles back to his apartment, where they’d have privacy, and spread the man out across his bed like a feast. He’d taste him, devour him, drink him down. Peter snarled, tightening the fist he’d curled around his erection. He was already leaking precum, and the smooth glide of his foreskin got better, wetter, with every stroke.

His phone chimed, buzzing against his palm, and Peter’s toes curled against the couch cushions.

> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Fuck_
> 
> _U wanna make me wait for it babe? Gonna make me beg?_
> 
> _Please Peter_

_Jesus fucking Christ_. Peter couldn’t answer yet, taking a moment to work his dick over instead, rubbing his thumb across the slippery head. Stiles beat him to it anyway; before Peter could work up enough coordination to type out any sort of reply, there was another message. Another photo.

This one was still in the bathroom, but the angle was very different. Stiles had obviously been holding the phone over his shoulder to get a photo of his own back, from nape to the swell of his ass, naked and beaded with water. His spine was arched in a sinuous curve, exaggerated by the angle of the shot, stretching his muscles.

There were more moles, of course, and more exquisite bare skin, just waiting for Peter to claim with bruising kisses and the clutch of his hands, leaving his mark and blending their scents. God, he was ravenous for it.

> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Scrubbed my own back. Woulda been more fun w help_
> 
> _How’d I do? Miss any spots?_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Looks so good sweetheart_
> 
> _But I can’t be sure from here_
> 
> _I’ll check tomorrow if you let me. Thoroughly_
> 
> _Did you cum already thinking about my hands on you_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Yeah_
> 
> _Jerked off in the shower thinking abt ur mouth and ur stupid gorgeous chest_
> 
> _Ur arms holding me down_
> 
> _I wanna bite ur neck. Will u let me babe? Let me dig my teeth in while I’m bouncing on ur dick_

Peter whined, low and pained. He didn’t realise he was baring his throat until after he’d done it, unconsciously tipping his head back for the pleasure of this devastating human. He fumbled with his phone, and managed to snap a decent enough photo of his cock, slick and achingly hard.

> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Is this what you want baby?_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _!!!!!!_
> 
> _JFC PETER WHERE R U_

It took a second for Peter to understand the reason for that vehement question, but when his brain finally pushed through the haze of arousal, he couldn’t help but laugh. It was a wheezy sound, breathless at the absurdity, and along with a particularly good twist of his wrist, it’s what pushed him over the plateau.

“Fuck, _Stiles_ —” His orgasm swept over him with barely any warning. Everything sharpened to a bright, keen edge, sparking electric through his nerves. The pressure released in a tidal rush, dragging him under, bowing his back and punching out a gasping, desperate breath.

He was laughing again, weakly, as the jerky spasms of his hips eased off. He stared blearily up at his ceiling; his chest was heaving, as though he’d been running for miles. His dick twitched with one last small, shivery spit onto his abs.

He blinked at his phone, still in his hand.

> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Relax I’m home. Apartment_
> 
> _You thought you were torturing me at Talia’s didn’t you?_
> 
> _Making me squirm with your filthy mouth when I couldn’t do anything about it._
> 
> _That’s so cruel, baby._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _U like it_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _I really do._
> 
> _Let me show you how much._

Peter finally gave into the urge he’d had the morning before, sending Stiles a photo of the pearly mess splattered across his stomach.

> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _That’s all for you, sweetheart._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Jfc_
> 
> _That’s so pretty babe_
> 
> _I wanna taste_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _I have no objections to that plan at all._
> 
> _As long as I get to return the favour._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Fuck yeah_
> 
> _Wait_
> 
> _By return the favour do u mean a blowjob or that teeny tiny bit of attempted teasing??_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Yes._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Oh god what have I done_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Well sweetheart, you’ve made your bed and now you’re going to get laid in it_
> 
> _;)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two long-ish notes:
> 
> You know how Teen Wolf canon is absolutely, godawfully convoluted when it comes to ages and dates? I want to specifically remind you all of 3A, and the story of Alexander Argent, the hunter who was bitten and turned by Deucalion in 1977. That would mean Deuc would’ve had to be an Alpha in 1977, which is 35 years before 3A. Now, Deucalion’s actor (the lovely Gideon Emery) is only in his early 40s, but I’ve already established in this story that werewolves tend to visibly age more slowly than humans (hence Stiles describing Bryony as being able to pass for 45, when she’s actually nearly 70). They also have a longer natural lifespan, for the record. 
> 
> For the purposes of this story, I’m assuming Deuc is older than he looks (though still younger than Bea). You go, Bea. You get some of that.
> 
> \---
> 
> RE: Anita and Colin. A couple people asked for details about what Colin had done to piss Anita off so badly.
> 
> Well first, Colin is just an abrasive dick in general, but specifically: Colin & Anita share a grandmother (Peter, Beth, and Talia’s great aunt). She’s very old, and very trusting of Pack, and Colin took advantage of her, taking a lot of money, and staying at her house while being really obnoxious about guests, parties, etc. 
> 
> Anita’s furious. There wasn’t even any need of him to be that much of an ass; he’s Pack, so if he was having a hard time financially, he just had to come to Talia about it. Pack takes care of Pack. But Colin knew that his Alpha wouldn’t put up with even a fraction of the bullshit he could get away with, dealing with his Grandma. And the grandmother wouldn’t say a word about it to Talia; she’s protecting Colin, her grandson. Bad situation, all around. 
> 
> Talia was very circumspect about not giving Peter all the details, because technically it’s Anita’s word against Colin and the grandmother (who’s covering for Colin), so it has to stand as a challenge between Anita and Colin, rather than the Alpha stepping in. Also, because Talia knows that if Peter had all the details, his reaction would have been significantly more violent than it was. Peter’s attitude and interactions with Pack might seem prickly sometimes, but Talia trusts implicitly that he’d kill and die for them. And he’d have no mercy for Colin, if he knew the way the little shit had treated his own grandmother.


	22. The Datening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk for a second, folks. As of this chapter, Glitter Glue is now 100K+ words and counting. It started out as my first foray into Steter, inspired by a fantastic, silly prompt; I never expected it to become this big, this complex and plotty, or this much damn fun. It’s developed into a piece of work that I’m very proud of, and I definitely wouldn’t have gotten this far without so much incredibly positive, wonderful feedback and support from you. I wanted to say thanks: genuinely, thank you so much for reading, for leaving comments and kudos, bookmarking, subscribing, sharing my tumblr posts, and for joining me in this universe that I have come to love. Thank you for engaging me with messages and questions, for helping to shape this story with your insights, and for encouraging me along the way. 
> 
> If that sounds like a goodbye, it’s not meant to-- we’ve still got a fairly long way to go before we reach the end (in case you were wondering, I do already have a google doc called “Glitter - Epilogue” and dear god, it’s barely more than some notes and dialogue, but it makes me tear up in a good way). Thank you for following along so far, whether you’ve just started reading, you’ve been with this story from its uncertain beginnings, or anything in between. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this extra long chapter, as a token of my appreciation for being such a phenomenal and inspiring audience.

> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Good morning oh goddess of brilliance and beauty, light of my life_
> 
> _Happy wolf moon to u and my boys_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Stiles it’s 2:13pm_
> 
> _And you’re suspiciously chipper._
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Suspiciously chipper??? Am I not a source of constant joy?? U wound me_
> 
> _It’s a beautiful day and I’m feelin good_
> 
> _Ur still in bed aren’t u_
> 
> _Lazybones_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _I am not. I’m just in the bedroom. Jackson’s in a meeting with Alpha Whittemore._
> 
> _And Isaac’s napping. I’m marking assignments. Or I was._
> 
> _Sounds like you had fun with the Hales._
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _The hales r crazy ppl. V welcoming and cool but totally fucking nuts_
> 
> _It’s kinda awesome tbh_
> 
> _How’s the little dude? Ok?_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _He’s tired, but he’s ok. You know my baby doesn’t handle the moon well when we’re away from home._
> 
> _We’re fine_
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Lyds?_
> 
> _U still there?_
> 
> _Hey u want me to call??_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Yes I’m here. Don’t call, Isaac is sleeping beside me. I don’t want to wake him._
> 
> _I couldn’t stay with him all night. He got too agitated. Jackson had to take him and I went in the house._
> 
> _He’s never like that at home. He’s calm and sweet. He’s perfect. But these people look at me like I’m crazy when I say that._
> 
> _They don’t believe me when I tell them that Isaac sits in my lap and we read stories on the full moon when we’re home. They don’t believe Jackson when he tells them either._
> 
> _God if one more human spouse tries to tell me “it’s ok” and “you don’t have to pretend” I’m going to scream._
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _They’re just jealous_
> 
> _Their kids r probably super bratty and moon wild yeah?_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _That’s not it. Their kids are all fine, mostly. Normal shifter babies. Hyper but not too aggressive._
> 
> _Isaac was the only one having a tantrum._
> 
> _They think it’s because we don’t visit the Pack enough. That Isaac’s not getting the socialization he needs._
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Bullshit_
> 
> _U know that’s crap Lyds_
> 
> _Zac’s a social butterfly. He’s a great kid_
> 
> _If he’s only having trouble there it’s obv the problem is them not him_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _What did I tell you about calling my baby “Zac”_
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _That it’s inevitable the dude’s gonna get a nickname sooner or later, so ur gonna chill and thank me for picking a cute one?_
> 
> _Was that the thing u told me?_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Asshole._
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _U love me. I love u too_
> 
> _Ur the best mom I know_
> 
> _I’m not kidding_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Stop_
> 
> _Damn it if you make me cry I'm going to geld you I swear_
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Can’t help it. Honestly 100% true_
> 
> _Those dbags don’t wanna admit it cuz it makes them look bad_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Thank you_
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Hey u want me to come down there?? Kick some ass?? Maybe help w the verbal devastation?_
> 
> _Or I could b moral support, just watch u lay waste to them_
> 
> _That would b srsly hot ngl_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Tempting but no_
> 
> _We’re fine. It’s ok. I just have to bite my tongue so much because I don’t want more tension with Jackson and his family. It’s already awful. I don’t want to make it worse._
> 
> _It hurts him. I know it does._
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Jax is a big boy. It’d hurt him a lot more if he knew u were upset and keeping it to urself_
> 
> _U and Issac r his family_
> 
> _We’re ur family_
> 
> _When r u coming home?_
> 
> **From Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Sunday afternoon. We promised we’d stay the weekend._
> 
> _Got to go. J is back._
> 
> _I’ll call you later sweetie. You’ll tell me all about WM with the Hales._
> 
> _Love you xx_
> 
> **To Queen Lydia:**
> 
> _Holy shit do I have stories for u_
> 
> _Give marshmallow wolf a snuggle from me_
> 
> _Tell him the place isn’t pretentious enough w/o him and I miss him deeply_
> 
> _And give Zac a smooch from uncle stiles and the peanuts_
> 
> _Love u too_

* * *

 

Lydia didn’t end up calling him until Saturday, shortly before noon. Stiles had spent most of Friday night cuddling on the couch with his kids, listening to them babble about all the cool stuff they’d done with the Hales. It didn’t matter even slightly that Stiles had been there too; they wanted to give him all the details. Their enthusiasm was absolutely infectious, and by the time he bundled them into their beds, his cheeks were aching from smiling.

He’d squeezed in a few hours of work before turning in, but very purposely didn’t stay up too late, and woke up Saturday morning feeling pleasantly refreshed. Arranging an evening out had been almost embarrassingly easy— John agreed to watch the kids without a second thought. Melissa would be coming over, too, and the twins were totally stoked for empanadas and board games with the grandparents.

The elk incident hadn’t been forgotten, and John still got this pinched expression when Peter’s name was mentioned, but Stiles had a feeling that his dad was weirdly invested in this date. It was bizarre. At this point, if Stiles tried to weasel out of it, he wasn’t entirely convinced he wouldn’t end up hogtied and dropped off at Peter’s apartment. Or maybe just inundated with the _Disappointed Dad_ look.

Sometimes Stiles caught the same look creeping over his own face, when the twins really pushed limits or got up to no good. The sight of that frown staring back at him from the other side of the mirror hadn’t stopped freaking him the fuck out yet.

It had been pouring rain all day so far, which meant the kids were stuck inside. They’d spent the morning overhauling their bedroom. There was a maze of hot wheels track taking up most of the floorspace, and a barricade of stuffed animals fencing in the closet, which had been packed with pillows and blankets like a cozy den. They seemed suitably distracted, and nothing was on fire yet, so Stiles mostly left them to it.

He was sticking some chicken nuggets and homefries in the oven for a quick, no-fuss lunch when his phone started to ring; the Bikini Kill chorus of the ringtone meant Lydia.

“My queen,” he said by way of hello, as usual. And, as usual, Lydia accepted the honorific.

“I thought you weren’t staying at the Hales overnight.” She sounded more curious than judgemental. “I see that plan got blown out of the water, if that photo you just posted is any clue. Who took that?”

“Beth, Peter’s sister.” Stiles flattened out the cardboard nugget box, tossing it in the recycling. “She’s hilarious, by the way. Maybe Jackson knows her? She’s a lawyer too— public interest. _Hale, something, and something_. She told me the name of the firm, but I couldn’t remember if you paid me.”

Lydia hummed, considering. “So you spent your night passed out, drooling on Peter Hale? You both look ridiculous, by the way, but Scott is adorable. I may have gotten a cavity.”

“Hey, I was awake when she took that.” Lydia hummed again, steeped in scepticism this time. “I was! You know I wouldn’t sleep as long as Lia was running around, and she didn’t crash until like, after four. Peter offered to keep me company, and I wasn’t saying no to a big wolfy electric blanket. I know the face you’re making right now, Lydia, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“I’m not making a face.” Genius she might be, Lydia Martin was not a good liar. At least, not if you knew her like Stiles did. “Sweetie, you told me you’re sure about this, and I trust that you know what you’re doing. I want you to be happy. If dating Peter Hale is what you want to do, and it all seems to be working out, then I’m happy for you.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Stiles said, entirely fond and not even vaguely annoyed. Lydia was his best friend, only worried because she cared about him, and she was making an effort. “I’m surprised your eyes aren’t brown. And I have no freaking idea what I’m doing, but when has that ever stopped me before?”

“Never.” The saccharine sweetness dropped out of Lydia’s voice like a stone, leaving a much more natural bite of snark. “That’s what scares me. And possibly reassures me, at least a little.”

“Yeah, me too, honestly.” Slumping back against the counter, Stiles scratched his stomach through the thin, worn t-shirt he’d slept in. “So how’s tricks down in Sactown? Everything going alright? I know travelling can make my man Isaac a little fussy sometimes.”

Stiles was choosing his words with particular care, very aware that any shifter around could probably hear everything he was saying through Lydia’s phone. He didn’t doubt she’d called him from somewhere relatively secluded, but real privacy would definitely be at a premium.

“Oh, everything’s fine,” Lydia said, with a clear edge of _we’ll talk about it later_. “How about you? How are the babies? Did they enjoy Wolf Moon with the Hales?”

“God, they loved it. They both ate their weight in hot dogs, made a bunch of new friends, and ran around ‘til they passed out. _Best party ever_ , apparently, and get ready: they’ll tell you all about it when you get home. And I met Peter’s mom, too. Bryony; Nana Bea. She’s great.” Stiles really laid on the sincerity, for the benefit of any possible eavesdroppers. They’d be able to hear his voice, but not any possible skips in his pulse that could give away the creative interpretations of truth he was weaving. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s scary as shit at first, but we had a couple of nice chats. She knows my dad, I guess. And she seemed completely in love with the twins, which is pretty standard. Between Isaac and my kids, they’ve got a serious monopoly on cute. Nobody stands a chance.”

Let the Whittemores, Jackson excluded, suck on that. Stiles was going to do anything in his power to try and make those fuckers sweat, since they’d made the grave error of giving his friends shit for the way they raised their son. Stiles would bet his left nut that Bryony Hale had a reputation among shifters, even outside Beacon Hills, and he was more than willing to exploit it like this.

“That’s true,” Lydia said, with laughter tinging her voice. It was miles better than strain. “I’m so happy the babies had fun. What about you, sweetie? How was Peter? And Talia?”

“I cleared things up with Talia.” Stiles shrugged, even though Lydia couldn’t see it. “We’re on the same page now, I think. And we’re good, which is awesome, because I really didn’t want things to get awkward. I mean, I kind of look up to her? A lot. She’s Talia Hale. Maybe I’m still a little starstruck, in the geekiest way possible.” At least Lydia wouldn’t judge him for that; she had plenty of her own super nerd crushes.

“I’m glad you cleared things up,” she said, with obvious sincerity. “For your sake, and the babies, too. Now, what about Peter?”

“Peter… Peter’s pretty great, Lyds. Really great.”

“Oh god, you’re so gone.” Lydia laughed properly this time, chiming like a bell, and Stiles pressed his fist against the spread of his embarrassing grin. “It’s disgusting. How did this even happen?”

“Dude’s a stone cold fox. Like, illegally hot.” Pushing away from the counter, Stiles headed to the fridge to rustle up some veggies for the kids to munch along with their nuggets. “He’s funny, and he’s smart, and not boring. He’s an asshole, but in this way that makes me wanna kiss him even when I wanna punch him. He’s good with my kids. And he gives me wicked brain boners. Need I go on?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And oh my god, the man can kiss, holy hell. Full-body involvement, leaning right in. I could write sonnets about his tongue. I swooned. I’m a fully fledged adult person, and I literally swooned, Lydia, seriously. I’m somewhat concerned the sex may kill me. I’m so into it.”

“I’m thrilled for you,” Lydia deadpanned. “Though I think it might traumatize the twins if you screw their teacher to death.”

“Spoilsport.” Pulling out a cutting board and knife, Stiles pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder, then went to work reducing a couple of carrots and some celery into easily dippable sticks. “We’re going out tonight. Third date, and Dad and Mel are going to watch the twins. Got any quick fashion tips, oh queen of my heart? I need something that says _boyfriend material_ , but also makes it very clear that I’d like to be laid out on the nearest vaguely horizontal surface and taken in a manly fashion at his earliest convenience.”

“Classy. I wish you’d warned me you were going to try getting laid while I was away. We should’ve gone shopping before I left. Your wardrobe is in pitiful shape.”

“I still say mustard stains and finger paint are gonna be so on-trend for spring this year. You just watch.” He had a couple of decent shirts he kept in good shape for work that might do the trick. Maybe. “But hey, so far, the hoodies and scuffed sneakers haven’t seemed to turn him off.”

“Sweetie, I think he’s just more interested in the candy than the wrapper.” There was a shuffling noise through the phone, then Lydia sighed. “But you should put some effort in. The man might be an ass, but he seems to know how to dress. Where are you two going tonight?”

“No idea.” When Peter had asked where he’d like to go, Stiles had lobbed the question back at him. Coffee had been Stiles’ idea, and Wolf Moon had started with Talia, weirdly. It was Peter’s turn to take the reins with this dating thing. “I was given minimal details. Casual, indoors. That’s it.”

“Immensely helpful. Alright, let’s keep things simple. No stains, no holes, no hoodies.”

“I figured that much out on my own, thanks.” Setting a colander in the sink, Stiles gave the chopped vegetables a rinse and a shake. The chicken and fries would need to be turned soon. “I’m not twelve.”

“No graphic tees,” Lydia carried on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Because while you may think it’s hilarious, _Stud Muffin_ is not appropriate date attire if you want to get banged like a screen door.”

“I place myself entirely in your capable hands, my queen. Direct me.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles paused in front of the elevator buttons, giving himself a quick once-over. He smoothed down the front of his button-down— Lydia’s choice, it was dark blue, with a subtle checkered pattern— and did a last-minute inspection, making sure his khakis hadn’t picked up lint, stickers, glitter, or weird stains. Any child-related debris that might have transferred onto him from the interior of his car on the drive over. He exhaled into his cupped palm for a second, testing his breath for staleness, but the mint he’d been sucking on his way over had done its job. He was good. Everything was good.

He stepped into the empty elevator when the doors slid open, and jammed his thumb against the right button before he could freak himself out even worse. At this point, it would be a miracle if Peter couldn’t hear his heart pounding from seven floors up.

There wasn’t any turning back now; Peter had buzzed him in through the intercom, with a warm _come on up, sweetheart_ , that made Stiles’ stomach churn with answering heat. He was going up to Peter’s apartment. Sure, they were headed out on a date very shortly— Stiles still had no idea _where_ — but right now? Right now, Stiles was about to enter the wolf’s den, willingly, and he was forcibly pushing all naughty thoughts about Peter’s bed, and Peter’s couch and, fuck it, Peter’s _kitchen table_ out of his head.

He wasn’t going to jump the guy the second the door opened. They were going to have a date. A real date, wherever the hell Peter had decided to take him. Then afterward, if Peter was down with it, Stiles had every intention of coming back to this apartment and climbing him like a fucking tree.

The ride up to the seventh floor didn’t take long, but felt like an eternity. Stiles was snapping his fingers and drumming his hands against his thighs the entire time, making noise purely to drown out the rush of blood in his ears and the full-colour, high definition montage of all the filthy things he wanted to do with Peter.

He needed to calm the hell down. Horny desperation wasn’t the first thing he wanted Peter to smell on him.

The walk from the elevator down to apartment 705 gave him enough time to take some deep, cleansing breaths and have a nice, silent negotiation with his dick. Everybody was going to behave themselves. Everything was cool.

Or, everything _was_ cool, until Peter decided to fuck everything up.

“Hello there,” Peter said, leaning against the door he’d just opened. Leaning, looking like he’d been poured into a pair of dark jeans and a thin, fitted sweater the colour of red wine. The v-neck plunged so deep, Stiles half-expected to see a hint of bellybutton. Okay, maybe that was a _slight_ exaggeration, but the gloriously muscly man-cleavage and chest hair he did see were distracting enough.

Peter smiled, looking more than a little smug under Stiles’ slack-jawed appreciation, but also sort of soft around the edges. There were crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and definite fondness in the curl of his lips. And he was _barefoot_.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Peter.” Stiles flapped both hands, indicating the whole obscene picture of shifter in front of him. He was whining, he could hear it in his own voice, but _come on_. “Seriously? You’re killing me. You look like… upscale porn.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Peter tilted his head, motioning back into the apartment. “Come in, make yourself at home.”

He may have extended the welcome, but Peter didn’t move out of the doorway. There was enough room for Stiles to pass, barely, and Peter wasn’t remotely subtle about sniffing when Stiles brushed through his personal space.

Inside the apartment was pretty much as tasteful and polished as Stiles had anticipated: glossy hardwood floors the colour of honey, warm neutral shades on the walls, with some rich, dark accents to tie it all together. A living room to his right, with a big, cushy sofa, couple of chairs, and flat screen TV mounted on the wall. A closet set into the jut of wall to his left, and past that, Stiles could see a small dining table and a hint of the kitchen around the corner. Straight ahead, across from the front door, was the mouth of a hallway.

Everything was tidy, without the heaps of toys, discarded clothes, and barely contained mayhem Stiles was used to, but thankfully it wasn’t magazine pristine, either. There was a pile of mail on a little table by the door, the bookshelves lining the living room walls were overstuffed, and a more books were stacked on the floor beside the couch. A small, neon purple lump was lying in the middle of the floor between Stiles and the coffee table— upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a stuffed mouse, scruffy and missing one of its pink felt ears. A multi-tiered, carpeted scratching post about as tall as Stiles’ waist stood beside the archway leading down the hall; right next to it, there were obvious clawmarks on the corner of the wall, rending the paint.

“May I take your coat?” The question made Stiles startle, both because he’d been distracted by scoping out Peter’s home, and because, unsurprisingly, Peter had crept up close before speaking. Stiles managed not to flail, but then Peter’s hands were on him, one snagging the front of his open jacket while the other sneaked underneath, sliding over his shirt and coming to rest on his hip.

It was a bold move, bringing them face to face with only a scant couple of inches between them, but Peter just toyed idly with the edge of Stiles’ jacket, like everything was totally normal. Like he didn’t have his fingers curled loosely over Stiles’ hipbone, with a grip that felt warm even through Stiles’ shirt.

“Uh,” Stiles said, brilliantly, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Are we— I mean, we’re headed out, aren’t we?”

“That depends.” The hand stroking his jacket trailed higher, and Peter’s thumb traced along the open collar of Stiles’ shirt, barely brushing against the skin underneath. “You look very handsome tonight. Blue suits you.”

It was a dangerous gambit, but Stiles couldn’t just stand there with his arms hanging limp and useless while Peter meticulously pressed his buttons. He made the executive decision to reach around and wedge his hands into the back pockets of Peter’s jeans; in return, he got two handfuls of firm ass and a low, pleased growl. He definitely counted that as a win.

“Thanks,” he said, giving that glorious ass a friendly little squeeze, and ignoring how wobbly his own voice sounded. “Depends on what?”

“On you, sweetheart.” Peter leaned in, slowly, giving Stiles all the time in the world to back away from the predator going for his throat. Stiles tipped his head to the side, offering Peter more room to scent him. He shivered when Peter started talking again, while nuzzling the sensitive skin under Stiles’ ear. “I made reservations at a very nice bistro, that happens to have a very forgiving cancellation policy. Or, I’ve got everything prepped to make dinner here, if you’d rather stay in.”

“Stay in,” Stiles echoed, much more a question than a decision, and Peter hummed, pressing an unmistakable, but impossibly gentle kiss against the hinge of Stiles’ jaw.

“It’s up to you,” he said, while his fingertips drew slow circles through the hair at Stiles’ nape. Stiles could feel his spine melting, in the best way. “Full disclosure, I find the idea of cooking for you very appealing. But it doesn’t have to happen tonight.”

Stiles had a sinfully good-looking dude plastered against him, kissing his neck, and he was already well on his way to chubbing up in his khakis. Given the particulars of the situation, the answer seemed pretty damned obvious.

“Hey,” he said, and waited for Peter to pull back, enough that they were looking each other in the face. Peter’s eyes were gleaming intently in the comfortably dimmed lighting, flitting over Stiles’ expression, searching.

Stiles resisted the urge to overthink things, and bent down instead, catching Peter’s mouth in a small, easy kiss. Just a press of mouths, no tongues, but lingering long enough to share a breath or two. And long enough for Peter to shift closer, combing his fingers into Stiles’ hair, cradling the back of his skull.

“Staying in,” Stiles said, in between the end of that kiss and the start of the next one, which he planted on the corner of Peter’s mouth. “Sounds good, you ridiculously smooth bastard. I can’t even deal with you.”

Peter’s smile turned wolfish, and Stiles couldn’t help but snort a laugh for even thinking that.

“Shut up and give me your coat,” Peter said, then proceeded to manhandle the jacket off with barely any help from Stiles at all. Stiles pulled off his shoes too, glad that he’d double-checked his socks for holes before he left his house, and followed where Peter beckoned, which turned out to be the kitchen.

“Holy shit.” The _obscenely swanky_ kitchen. Stiles whistled low, running his hand along the cool granite. The countertop hugged the walls in a u-shape, plus the jut of the peninsula separating it from the small dining room, and it was all the same polished stone, mottled in shades of caramel, beige, and dark grey. It complimented the light wood of the cupboards, and the sandy brown floor tile that started where the hardwood ended. The appliances were stainless steel, including a big, double-door fridge and glass-topped stove, and a pair of upholstered bar stools were tucked against the outside of the peninsula, turning it into a little breakfast bar.

“Sit,” Peter said, with a wave than encompassed the bar stools and the square dining table, then headed into the kitchen proper.

“We’re eating?” Stiles hopped up onto one of the stools, surreptitiously adjusting his dick behind the cover offered by the peninsula. It wasn’t like he was hard enough to pound nails, but the impromptu make-out hadn’t left him unaffected. He’d sort of expected to be immediately hustled off to the bedroom after that little show, but getting fed before getting hot and heavy wasn’t a bad deal. “What are we eating?”

“Steak,” Peter said, uncovering a dish resting on the cupboard, then setting the freshly revealed platter of cheeses and fancy crackers down in front of Stiles. “Beer or wine?”

“Oh, beer me, babe.” Stiles snapped up a wedge of flakey white cheese on a buttery cracker while Peter headed to the fridge. He came back with two tulip shaped glasses, and two brown bottles that definitely didn’t have English labels. The beer, when Peter poured it, was deep copper, almost red, and it tasted smooth as silk.

“I’m already feeling very wined and dined,” Stiles said, while Peter puttered around assembling their dinner, moving with practiced ease and enviable grace. “Spoiled, even. Anything I can do to help?”

“You are helping.” Peter was moving fast, but Stiles was pretty sure he’d seen something go into the oven. He could already smell the herbs starting to heat up. “You’re tempting as hell just sitting there, and excellent motivation for me to be especially impressive. Luckily, I do some of my best work with an audience.”

“ _Show-off_ ,” Stiles said, behind an obviously fake cough, and Peter smirked.

“Absolutely. But if you’re looking for something to do, I wouldn’t say no to being hand-fed some of that gruyère.”

To be fair, Peter was currently handling raw steak, patting the marinade off two thick slabs of meat. Abandoning his seat, Stiles came around the peninsula, bringing the entire cheese platter with him, and sidled up next to Peter’s elbow.

Stiles didn’t technically _need_ to rest his hand on the small of Peter’s back while he offered the guy a couple bites of cheese and cracker, but then again, Peter didn’t technically need to lick Stiles’ fingertips either. Neither of them were complaining, regardless.

That went on for a few increasingly heated minutes until, too soon, it was apparently time for the steak to move to the cast iron pan already waiting on the stove. Stiles stepped back and let the magic happen, popping a cube of cheese into his own mouth.

He nearly choked when he noticed a pair of huge, yellow eyes staring him down from the bar stool where he’d been sitting.

“Gah!” He coughed into his fist, preventing an untimely and ignoble death by cheddar, but didn’t quite have the constitution to explain when Peter sent him a questioning, somewhat concerned look. He pointed instead, redirecting Peter’s attention.

“Oh,” Peter said, leaving the steaks to sizzle and stepping around Stiles to wash his hands. “That’s Hobbes. Watch your beer, or he’ll knock it off the counter.” As if waiting for the invitation, a furry grey limb darted out, swiping at the stem of Stiles’ glass, sloshing and shifting it a few inches closer to certain death.

“Shit—” Scrambling to save his drink, Stiles barely made it in time, but managed to snag it without spilling a drop. The cat looked entirely unimpressed, peering up at Stiles with its ears pulled back and flattened. The low grumbling noise it was making sounded too hostile to be classed as a purr.

“He’s been known to bite,” Peter said conversationally, like that wasn’t fucking horrific. Then, in a sharper voice: “Hobbes, behave yourself or I’m locking you out on the balcony for the night, I swear to god.”

The cat let out a long, warbling meow, gave Stiles serious death-glare for another five seconds or so, then curled up into a tight doughnut and closed its eyes, with its nose tucked behind its tail.

“He’ll sulk for a while.” Peter crowded up against Stiles’ back, hooking his chin over Stiles’ shoulder and nuzzling his cheek. “Until there’s a chance to beg for food. I think he likes you.”

“Excuse me? Did you not see the stink-eye I just got? I think he wants me _dead_ , Peter.”

“Hardly.” Peter tutted, peeling himself away from Stiles to go do something at the stove. “If he wanted you dead, baby, you’d be bleeding already.”

 

* * *

 

Dinner was a near-orgasmic experience— Peter could cook, seriously, _goddamn_ — but the actual orgasms were going to be even better, if the steamy after dinner make-outs on the couch were any indication. Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this intensely turned on, and they were still mostly dressed.

He was straddling Peter’s lap, with his knees braced on the couch and his arms looped around Peter’s shoulders. It was the perfect position to grind the hard lines of their dicks together, and Stiles groaned shamelessly with every roll of his hips, chasing sweet, frustrating bliss, dulled through the fabric of their pants. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, from the bottom up, which gave Peter plenty of room to shove his hands up under the hem, kneading Stiles’ bare back and pulling him closer.

“All in favour,” Stiles managed to gasp, while Peter popped another button open with his teeth, at the collar this time. He started sucking wet kisses along the centre of Stiles’ chest, burying his nose against the patch where the hair grew thicker. “Of less pants and, _fuck_ , and more beds. Say aye. Aye!”

Instead of verbalizing his answer, Peter decided to be more proactive. Stiles yelped, a tiny bit, when the world shifted under him without warning. The dizzying movement turned out to be Peter standing up, bringing Stiles along for the ride without the slightest hint of strain, despite the added weight of lifting a whole other grown man, and dear god, that was so hot. So _stupidly_ hot, but that wasn’t shocking; sexy manhandling was one of Stiles’ die hard, bulletproof kinks, if everybody involved was into it and he was the one on the receiving end. Peter didn’t seem opposed to the idea, either.

Stiles clung to Peter like a baby koala, wrapping his legs around the guy’s waist, while Peter’s hands found their way to Stiles’ thighs, helping to hoist him up more comfortably as they maneuvered around the coffee table. They were kissing again, so deep and sloppy and totally _consuming_ that Stiles zoned out of his surroundings. He didn’t care what else was happening or where they were headed, as long as Peter kept licking into his mouth like that, breathing out rough, broken grunts that went straight to Stiles’ dick.

Eventually, Stiles was being laid down across a soft bedspread, on a mattress that must have been king sized, and his surroundings became slightly more interesting. If only because _bed_ probably meant _naked_ was also in the cards, sooner rather than later, and Stiles was one hundred percent on board with that plan.

Peter braced one knee on the mattress, and wasted no time stripping off his sweater. The sight of that broad, toned chest wasn’t entirely new, but the situation made a difference. Ogling shirtless Peter in the Hales’ backyard had been awesome, but ogling shirtless Peter in the privacy of the dude’s bedroom meant Stiles could be much more directly involved with the proceedings.

“Seriously, the most upscale porn.” Scooting his ass farther onto the bed, Stiles sat up, running his hands up over Peter’s ribs. “God, get over here. I wanna lick everything.”

“Likewise.” Peter crawled onto the bed, shoving Stiles back down. He bent down for a slow, filthy kiss, getting the rest of Stiles’ shirt buttons open at the same time. Stiles definitely appreciated a man who could multitask.

“Question,” Peter said, pushing Stiles’ shirt aside and flattening his warm palm over bare skin. His thumb circled a nipple, and Stiles groaned, mouthing the tender skin under Peter’s chin. “Any opinions on marks? Hickeys and biting, specifically.”

“Yeah—” Stiles’ breath hitched, both from the thought of Peter’s teeth, and the exquisite pressure of a firm thigh against his crotch. “Yeah, good. Great. Really great. Definitely in favour, go for it, please.”

Peter let loose a deep, gratified growl, and wasted no time latching onto the meat of Stiles’ shoulder with teeth and tongue. Maybe Stiles should have been more hesitant to give the guy totally free rein to go hickey-happy, considering Peter’s preoccupation with his neck and the fact that Stiles needed to be relatively presentable for the general public, including his kids. But fuck it, he remembered how concealer worked, and it was January, so he could get away with wearing a scarf if he needed to. Some physical, lasting reminders of Peter’s touch were too appealing to resist; he wanted bruises he could poke at later, to help tide him over ‘til the next time he could get Peter naked.

He ended up with an uneven collar of reddened blotches, but most of them were probably low enough for a t-shirt to cover. The lurid bloom of colour over his heart, an inch or two from his nipple, stung every time Peter dragged his teeth over it, which the bastard _kept doing_ , biting harder when Stiles whined and wriggled under his mouth and wandering hands.

Stiles hadn’t been idle while Peter was marking him up— belts had been unbuckled, flies unzipped, and Peter’s jeans were shoved down over the swell of his ass. Stiles had been fifty-fifty about whether or not he’d expected Peter to be going commando, but the sleek black boxer briefs he actually found were not a disappointment. The buttery soft fabric clung beautifully, leaving very little to the imagination, but there was just something so appealing about that little extra anticipation.

“Fuck yeah,” Stiles breathed, palming Peter’s mouthwateringly thick cock through his underwear. His own dick jumped when Peter moaned against his chest, shuddering above him. “Oh, that’s nice. That’s gonna feel so good, babe. God, I can’t wait— I wanna ride you. Fuck, I wanna sit on your dick and fucking ride you stupid, oh my god.”

“That can be arranged,” Peter said, so raspy his voice was barely recognizable. When he lifted his head, his eyes were glowing, with a thin band of electric blue around the vast blackness of his blown pupils. Suddenly, Stiles was being expertly stripped. His khakis and underwear were yanked down so fast that he nearly chafed in some sensitive areas, but that momentary discomfort was forgotten when Peter flipped him over onto his stomach, pulling his shirt off his arms and hauling his hips up.

In the span of probably three seconds, Stiles had gone from half-dressed and straining in his briefs, pinned under a hundred and eighty pounds of shifter muscle, to completely naked, with his ass in the air.

“Jesus,” he said, muffled in the blankets, then lifted himself up on his elbows, twisting his head around to look back at Peter. “Maybe warn a guy.”

“But sweetheart, that wouldn’t be half as much fun.” Grinning, Peter moved in, wrapping his hands around Stiles’ hips and draping himself over the curve of his back. Stiles arched into the biting kiss planted on the nape of his neck, canting his hips into the sensation of Peter’s jeans scraping along the backs of his thighs, and the hard cock grinding against his ass.

“I was going to make you wait,” Peter murmured, rocking them together in a dirty, promising rhythm that had no right to send sparks of lightning skittering through Stiles nerves. There was a pair of underwear still in the way, for fucksake. “String you out until you’re sobbing, but I think we’ll save that for later. Right now, I’d rather eat you out. How’s that sound?”

Stiles fisted both hands in the downy comforter, moaning long and low. His ass tightened, not entirely on purpose, and he slumped until his chest rested on the bed, thrusting his hips up without an ounce of subtlety. That sounded really, really good.

Peter decided to travel leisurely down from Stiles’ nape, licking or biting every vertebrate, and taking the time to suck a dark plum-purple splotch directly above Stiles’ left asscheek. If that meandering path didn’t count as _making him wait_ , Stiles was equal parts exhilarated and concerned about what the hell kind of protracted teasing Peter had in store for him _later_.

Eventually, _finally_ , a pair of sure, strong hands gave his ass a brief massage before spreading him open, coaxing his thighs to shift even farther apart.

“Gorgeous,” Peter said, but Stiles felt the hot breath of the words more than he heard them. Then nothing else mattered but Peter’s tongue, dragging broad and flat over his hole.

“ _Fuck—_ ” Stiles’ hands clenched harder, anchoring, while Peter licked at him. It was slick and insistent, and Stiles’ vocabulary was reduced to a litany curses and Peter’s name. Coherence got progressively worse, inverse to the significant increase in shrillness, as things got sloppier, wetter. By the time Peter was easing one finger inside, along with his fiendishly determined tongue, Stiles was clawing at the blankets, dangerously close to busting a nut.

“Gonna cum,” he managed to grind out, somehow. In a move that was both a blessing and a torment, Peter instantly removed that glorious tongue from Stiles’ person.

“Not yet, baby.” There was still a finger in his ass, shallow and teasing, but Peter had two hands. The other one sneaked around, sharply squeezing the base of Stiles’ dick; Stiles flinched, whining under his breath, but the tightness in his balls seemed less urgent already. “Not until you’re riding my cock, remember? Going to take it so pretty, aren’t you?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah.” Stiles took a breath, with his face tucked in the humid clutch of his folded arms. Peter’s lips pressed against his tailbone, weirdly gentle and sort of perfect. “Fucksake Cujo, I can’t feel my legs. Help me up.”

More manhandling was absolutely the order of the night; Stiles let himself be lifted, hauled around, and he caught Peter’s mouth in a kiss the second he was in range again. The rest of Peter’s clothes disappeared, thank _Christ_ , and some very nice, silky lube and a condom were retrieved from the bedside table. After a fantastic rimming like that, Stiles didn’t really need much more prep to open up properly— in very short order, Peter was sitting up against the headboard, with three fingers working inside Stiles’ ass, making plenty of room for the blunt head of his cock that followed.

Stiles braced his hands on Peter’s shoulders, easing himself down gradually, panting at the sharp sweetness of the stretch. Peter’s dick was a thing of beauty: deliciously girthy, and just a tiny bit shorter than Stiles’ usual go-to dildo, it promised to hit all the right spots. Uncut, with a very interesting curve upward that Stiles couldn’t wait to feel from every conceivable angle.

There was a dark pink flush trailing up Peter’s chest and neck, mottled where the tendons were taut with the effort of holding himself still while Stiles slowly fucked down onto him. His hands were roaming, petting Stiles’ sweat-slick stomach and sides, but there wasn’t any attempt to direct things; he was letting Stiles set the pace.

That wash of high colour felt hot under the press of Stiles’ mouth, where he was tasting the salt off Peter's neck, biting 'til the faint tang of iron rose under the skin in momentary bruises. It was fucking gorgeous, even if the marks wouldn't stay. When he shifted down another inch or so, finally bottoming out, he felt the growl rattle its way up from the depths of Peter’s chest.

“Oh, that’s good,” Stiles muttered, smearing his lips along the curve of Peter’s throat, rocking down into the intense fullness. Peter’s hands were on his back, clinging. He could have given himself a bit longer to get accustomed to the feeling, to loosen up more, but Stiles had never been accused of immense patience. He flexed his thighs, lifting his ass up then immediately rolling his hips back down again. The lube was fantastic, making the drag satiny smooth, and the wheezy, punched out noise that Peter made was even more reason for Stiles to do it again, working up a quick, hard rhythm.

Peter swore hotly, clamping one hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, and the other on his hip. The slap of skin on skin was loud and wet, counterpoint to their grunting and slurred words, the slick noises of open-mouthed kisses, and the creak of the bed under them, all melding together into the most beautifully lewd soundtrack.

When Stiles came, his thighs were burning with exertion, and he was probably thirty seconds away from getting them to switch positions, even though he'd already found the most divine, toe-curling angle. Before he could make the suggestion, though, there was a warm, well-lubed hand closing tightly around his aching erection, striping him hard and fast. Even if he’d wanted to, there wasn’t a chance in hell of stopping the rush of his orgasm when Peter was jerking him off like that. Especially not when the guy punctuated the move with a husky whisper against Stiles’ jaw.

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he said, sounding totally wrecked, and _fuck_ , Stiles had done that. He was the one fucking Peter breathless and ruined. “Wanna feel it. Come on—”

And that was _it_. Stiles clenched around every exquisite inch of the dick splitting him open, screwing his hips down in a tight corkscrew, taking Peter as deep as he could. He came all over Peter’s stomach and his fist, in long, intense spurts that felt as if they’d been milked out of his spine as well as his balls. His hands were shaking when he buried them in Peter’s hair, yanking the guy in for a messy crash of a kiss.

He missed the first telling throb of Peter’s dick inside him, but he couldn’t ignore the jerks of Peter’s hips, fucking up into him with vivid abandon for three, _four_ hard thrusts. The glancing pressure sparking against Stiles’ prostate was almost too much to bear, but then Peter was pushing deep with a harsh groan, staying there, cradling Stiles close.

They both melted down against the pillows at basically the same time, gulping air, noodly-limbed and giddy with endorphins. Stiles hissed when Peter pulled out, then stretched out on his back like a starfish while the condom was taken care of.

“No, no, stay,” he said softly, pawing at Peter to stop him from getting out of the bed. Peter sighed, tossing the kleenex-wrapped condom heedlessly off the side of the mattress, and proceeded to kick the blankets down just far enough to bundle them both underneath, drying cum, lube, and all.

“Of course you’re a cuddler,” Peter groused, but he was the one yanking Stiles closer under the quilts, slotting them neatly together, with Stiles’ head resting comfortably on his shoulder. “Clingy little shit.”

“Guilty as charged,” Stiles said, instead of calling Peter out on the way his arm was wound snugly around Stiles’ back. He felt around for Peter’s free hand, and laced their fingers when he found it, laying their twined grip on Peter’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they did the dooooo *throws glitter* 
> 
> Happy 100K, friends <3


	23. The Datening 2: Date Harder

Peter wasn’t used to sleeping in a bed beside another person. Flopping into a pile with family for a couple hours of rest after a particularly enthusiastic full moon was one thing, and even then, he rarely slept soundly, with Cora jabbing him in the kidneys, Derek drooling in his hair, and Laura snoring counterpoint to Talia.

Sharing a bed with someone like this was different. It’d been a few years since he’d cared to spend the night after sex, and he rarely invited people back to his apartment. He liked to keep his private space just that: private. Uncluttered. Relaxing and familiar. Hell, when he’d first moved back to Beacon Hills and into his current apartment, he’d managed to avoid Talia hunting down his address for nearly three months.

He spent plenty of time at the Hale homestead, attended family dinners, and took his nieces and nephew on the occasional _Uncle Peter playdate_ when Talia and Brendan wanted a day to themselves. He loved his family, and he honestly enjoyed the majority of his time with them, but he always liked having a reliable escape plan. A refuge from the noise, the chatter, the expectations. He required socialization for the sake of his own well being, like any wolf, or any person really, but not constantly. And, preferably, on his terms.

Stiles certainly seemed like he’d be the restless sort, and Peter had been prepared for a long night of little sleep while his bedmate fidgeted. He’d been willing to endure it, since the benefits of having Stiles sprawled out beside him easily outweighed the pain in the ass.

But, surprisingly enough, while Stiles did end up waking him a couple of times, it was all intentional, every time. When he slept, Stiles was a log: entirely limp, deeply unconscious, with only his slowed heartbeat and quiet, slightly raspy breathing breaking the absolute stillness. He mumbled a little, when he slipped down far enough for his dreams to make his eyes dart behind the delicate, paper-thin skin of his closed lids, but it wasn’t obnoxious.

The level of trust required to relax that much was almost frightening, if Peter thought about it too closely. Because Stiles wasn’t stupid, wasn’t some wide-eyed, gullible idiot, yet here he was, sleeping peacefully. Vulnerable. Apparently unconcerned about his safety, lying next to a werewolf he’d known for a handful of weeks.

Peter had decided to watch him for a while, expecting a lot of tossing and turning, a flailing limb or two that hopefully wouldn’t smack him in the face. The worst he’d actually gotten were a few drowsy nuzzles, and a wet smear of drool on his shoulder. Drifting off with his nose buried in the thick scent of Stiles’ hair hadn’t been the plan, but the room was quiet and calm, the bedding was a cozy cocoon around the naked tangle of their bodies, and Peter had quite literally been ridden hard and put away wet. He was languidly drunk on his own post-coital buzz and the combined smells of their sweat, cum, and satisfaction.

“Peter.” No, he hadn’t exactly planned on falling asleep. He wasn’t even aware that he’d done it. A voice murmuring his name in his ear was definitely enough to jolt him awake, though.

“Easy,” Stiles said, in a husky, soothing whisper. There was a hand stroking Peter’s chest, and breath fanning warm against his neck, before Stiles kissed him there, right under the hinge of his jaw. “Just me, babe. Gotta pee, and take out my contacts. Can’t exactly sneak out of a shifter’s bed, though.”

“On the right,” Peter reminded him, swallowing around his dry throat. “Soon as you get in the hall. Bathroom’s right there. Bottle of contact solution and an empty case in the medicine cabinet.”

Stiles was quiet for a moment, perfectly still, before leaning in and rubbing his face against Peter’s neck and cheek.

“Thoughtful, and slightly creepy,” he said, and Peter could hear the smile in his voice, even without the sensation of it pressed against his skin. “Thanks.”

Another kiss, this one brushing the corner of his mouth, and then Stiles was climbing out from under the blankets. Peter sharpened his eyes, drinking in the sight of long, pale limbs and the slender lines of Stiles’ nudity. The marks on his chest and back were bold smudges against his complexion: rich, dark bruises that lingered where Peter had touched him, tasted him.

Was he still blush pink and loose where Peter had licked him open, then fucked up into his clutching heat?

“Hope you’re not trying to be sneaky.” Stiles huffed with very fake exasperation, shuffling across the bedroom without turning on a light, or getting tangled up in any of their discarded clothes. “I can see your eyes glowing, you perv.” He wiggled his hips, giving his own bare ass a swat, before disappearing into the hall. Peter stretched, laughing as he glanced at his phone, docked on the bedside table, displaying the time. Just after midnight. They hadn’t been asleep that long, but Peter wasn’t particularly tired anymore.

Rolling out of bed, he pulled on his underwear for the bare minimum of subtlety, grabbed the lube and a couple of condoms, and headed out to the kitchen. He clicked on the light above the range when he got there, creating a small spot of warm brightness in the otherwise dark apartment.

For the sake of politeness, he didn’t listen to the rushing faucet, the flush of the toilet, or anything else. The only reason he knew the second Stiles stepped foot out of the bathroom was because of the commotion that immediately followed. A screeching yowl, the sound of a body stumbling heavily, and Stiles’ colourful cursing was an impossible commotion to ignore.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Peter called out, not too loud, but enough to be heard over the racket. Hobbes meowed cheerfully, probably winding around Stiles’ ankles, totally unphased. Peter knew the little bastard’s game too well at this point.

He leaned against the counter, listening to Stiles’ footsteps approaching across the hardwood, and the nearly inaudible patter of Hobbes’ soft paws following close behind.

“If I break my neck,” Stiles said, stepping into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “Tripping over this asshole, I swear to god I’m haunting you both. What are you doing lurking out here, when there’s a big, warm bed back that way?”

“Dessert. I would’ve offered earlier, but somebody dragged me over to the couch and crawled into my lap before I had a chance.” Peter held up one of the pint tubs lined up on the countertop, then dug himself another spoonful of the fresh, handmade ice cream he’d bought the day before. Rich chocolate and peanut butter melted over his tongue, and his groan was only partly exaggerated for Stiles’ benefit.

“Are you—” Peter made a show of licking his spoon, and graciously didn’t comment on the crack in Stiles’ voice, or the uptick of his pulse. “Dessert. Yeah, alright, let me grab some pants. Hold that thought.”

“Don’t get dressed on my account.” Hooking a thumb in the waistband of his underwear, Peter tugged them down an inch or two, baring more of his stomach and the curve of his hip. “I’m happy to even the playing field, if it’ll make you more comfortable.”

Stiles hesitated, attention straying to Peter’s newly exposed skin. He swallowed audibly, throat clicking in the hush of the apartment.

“Naked ice cream,” Stiles said after a few seconds. It sounded like a question.

“Naked ice cream,” Peter replied, encouraging. Hobbes burbled, butting his head against Stiles’ calf. “Double chocolate peanut butter. Salted caramel. Swiss mocha.”

“Oh my god, just get naked.” Stiles’ initial step was another stumble over the cat, but he didn’t let that slow him down much, all but crashing into Peter in a flurry of busy hands and chilled, chocolatey kisses.

 

* * *

 

“Peter.” This time, Stiles’ voice didn’t trigger the same abrupt moment of tension as Peter woke up. The room was dark, but that didn’t mean much with the blackout blinds pulled down over the windows. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could blearily make out the numbers on his phone. Barely after five, Jesus _Christ_.

“Let me sleep ‘til seven,” Peter grumbled, hiding his face in the musky warmth of the pillow. Everything smelled like sex and comfort. “And I’ll blow you again. Before seven, I’ll gut you.”

From behind him, playing the role of big spoon for the moment, Stiles made a low, distressed whine, and dug his fingers into Peter’s ribs.

“Okay but, little help, babe?” He sounded legitimately pleading, and weirdly muffled. There was also purring. It was enough to coax Peter into turning over.

“You didn’t shut the bedroom door,” he said, observing the scene before him with more amusement than sympathy. “Like I told you to.”

Stiles was lying there, facing Peter, with his head squished into one of the pillows, pinned under Hobbes’ substantial bulk. The cat was a hefty tom, with a large frame and sturdy bones. His body was curled around Stiles’ skull, with his ass tucked into the crook of the man’s neck, and his front paws draped across Stiles’ forehead and cheek.

Whining again, Stiles slapped at Peter’s chest.

“Now is not the time to be throwing around accusations about who told who what, and who forgot,” he said, then squeaked when the paw closest to his eye unfurled, toes stretching and wicked claws extending just enough to scrape lightly at his cheek. “Now is the time for decisive rescuing, dashing hero style. Can you please get him off me? Soon would be great. It’s got flair, sure, but pretty sure the eyepatch look isn’t for me.”

“I told you he likes you.” Reaching out, as if to remove the cat, Peter gave Hobbes’ ears a scratch instead. “Need me to save you, baby? You can’t just move him yourself? Had to wake up the werewolf to protect you from the big mean kitty cat?”

“Fuck you, he’s heavy.” Stiles grunted when the ear scratches prompted Hobbes to stretch, craning up into the contact. “He’s pointy on five ends, and when I tried to push him off he dug his claws into my neck. He’s as stubborn and sharp as Lia, but I can’t exactly bribe him with candy to let me go. So, to recap: fuck you, and I could use a little _help_ here, babe.”

“Alright, relax.” Sitting up, Peter scooped Hobbes up with the ease of long practice. The cat gurgled his displeasure at being disturbed, but let himself be lifted without too much fuss. He made more of a racket when he realised Peter was getting up to put him out of the room, but by then it was too late.

“Go cause trouble,” Peter said, shutting the door sharply before Hobbes could dart back inside. There was miserable caterwauling and a few scratches for all of five seconds, until Hobbes got bored and pissed off somewhere. He’d learned from experience that Peter wasn’t likely to give in to his crying about shit like this, no matter how dramatic.

Turning toward the bed, Peter noticed that Stiles was propped against the headboard, squinting toward the door. He was obviously trying, with his blurry human vision and limited success, to track Peter’s movements through the shadows.

He looked delectable in Peter’s bed, wearing nothing but bitemarks. Positively edible.

“Does the dashing rescuer get a reward?” Peter asked, prowling back across the room with renewed intent. Stiles’ attention immediately honed in on him, probably more from the glow of his eyes than the sound of his voice. “You said he scratched your neck. Want me to kiss it better, sweetheart?”

No, it wasn’t even six in the morning yet, but fuck it. Sleep was a secondary concern compared to all the things he wanted to do to this man.

The suggestive curl of Stiles’ smile was luminous in the dark.

 

* * *

 

The third time Stiles woke him up, it wasn’t even from a deep sleep. Just a lazy doze, brought on by another bone-deep orgasm, and sweetened by the warm, pliant weight of Stiles’ body draped against his side and half over his chest.

“Hey, Peter?” It was after seven by now; they’d fucked long and slow, first with Stiles spread out on his back, then slotted together on their sides, until Stiles had unravelled under his hands with a shuddering, satisfied sigh. They’d kissed for even longer after that, and Peter found it easy to ignore any hints of stale or sour when Stiles’ tongue was licking into his mouth. There had been dark, sugary traces of chocolate and coffee still lingering, and Peter had lapped up that reminder of sinking to his knees in his own kitchen a few hours earlier, and sucking Stiles down to the root.

God, the noises Stiles made had been delicious: hitching moans and curses, heavy breaths and Peter's name, trembling out of him like a prayer. Peter had pinned him against the cupboards and blown him, fingered him, until his wobbly legs refused to hold him. Then he’d bent Stiles over the counter and fucked him hard enough to rattle the silverware in its drawer, while the half-eaten tubs of ice cream melted almost past the point of salvation.

A wonderful night, all things considered, even if uninterrupted sleep hadn’t been in the cards.

Peter hummed, running his hand lazily over the arm Stiles had slung across him. He didn’t open his eyes, until Stiles squirmed, and a bony chin was suddenly jabbing him in the sternum.

“What, baby?” he said, cracking his eyes open, just a slit. Stiles was studying his face in the light of the bedside lamp, which had been switched on during their last round, and not turned off again.

“Date me,” Stiles said, with a very serious looking furrow between his eyebrows. Peter blinked, curiosity and confusion making him wake up a little more. He looked down at Stiles, searching his intent expression for any clue about the odd shift in mood, but the man had a decent poker-face, surprisingly inscrutable.

“Alright.” Peter lifted the arm not curled around Stiles’ back, and waved to indicate the room around them, particularly the snug, fucked-out huddle of their bodies under the rumpled blankets. “I’m currently in the middle of doing that. Right now. I didn’t actually screw your brains out, did I?”

“No, smartass.” Peter’s nipple got a sharp tweak, and he squeezed Stiles’ ass in retaliation, sneaking his fingers lower, until he found heat and a bit of slickness not dried tacky yet. “Hey, no, quit pawing me and listen. I’m serious.”

“I’m all ears,” Peter said, retreating with regret. He rested his palm on the curve of Stiles’ lower back instead, gently rubbing.

“Date me,” Stiles said again, just as earnest and otherwise unreadable as the first time. “Exclusively. I don’t care if it’s too soon, or too clingy, or whatever.” Peter didn’t say anything, and Stiles apparently decided to interpret that millisecond of silence as hesitance, or refusal, or something equally ridiculous. Something that, apparently, he thought needed immediate verbal trampling.

“I’m shit at dating,” Stiles pressed on, picking up steam. “I’ve got like, negative free time, between work and the twins, and it’ll be an enormous pain in the ass with both our schedules, but I want to try. I like you a lot, and I want to try this. But I can’t afford to fuck around when this affects my kids, and like it or not, _Mr. Hale_ , you being you affects my kids. I can’t do casual, especially not with this. So, no bullshit, you want to be my boyfriend or what?”

It wasn’t really Peter’s fault that he started laughing. He swallowed it back, shushing Stiles when the man started making dangerously offended noises.

“No, shh, I’m not— Stiles.” He combed his fingers into Stiles’ hair, holding him in place. Stiles’ screwed up scowl might have been hilarious, maybe even cute, if there wasn’t an undercurrent of real hurt that Peter needed to address as quickly as possible. “Sweetheart, listen. Do you honestly think I’d take on all the potential conflicts, the headaches, and complicate things with one of the parents of my students, even future students, if I wanted something casual? Come on.”

“Are you—” There was tension in Stiles’ shoulders, and all down the arch of his spine. Peter hadn’t realised how much the man had stiffened up, until he suddenly loosened, easing into total pliancy with one big, shaky exhale. “You’re serious.”

“About this? Yes.” Pushing a few flattened pieces of hair back from Stiles’ forehead, Peter heaved a sigh. “About you? Also yes. Though I might have to reconsider, if sex makes you this slow on the uptake. It’s funny, but considering how often I want to have sex with you, it might get irritating.”

“Shut up,” Stiles said, but it was mostly muffled against Peter’s mouth.

 

* * *

 

> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _I just had v interesting chat w Lia_
> 
> _Enlightening_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _I imagine that’s pretty normal, isn’t it? Both of your kids seem very bright._
> 
> _How are they? Alright after Daddy’s night away?_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Yeah got some good old fashioned spoiling from the grandparents so they’re super_
> 
> _Mel let them help w dinner. They love that_
> 
> _Saved some lopsided empanadas for their old man too. Then gave me puppy eyes till I shared_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Enough generosity to look good, with a healthy amount of mercenary self interest._
> 
> _Have I mentioned that your parenting style is a real turn on?_
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Easy buddy. I got a bf_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _A boyfriend? I’m overwhelmed with jealousy._
> 
> _I thought we had something real, sweetheart._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Shoulda made ur move sooner Cujo. I’m a catch_
> 
> _Sorry not sorry cuz the bf is smoking hot_
> 
> _Back on topic_
> 
> _The Lia talk_
> 
> _My bb girl pulled me aside earlier and solemnly promised she wouldn’t tell Scotty I ate Bambi’s mom_
> 
> _U got anything to add???_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _That was thoughtful of her._
> 
> _She smelled it? She has an excellent handle on her senses for her age. Very impressive._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Peter_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Stiles._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _FFS_
> 
> _U fed me ur elk and didn’t tell me_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _You didn’t ask. And I never said it was beef._
> 
> _You also seemed to enjoy it, if the gratuitous moaning and licking your cutlery was any indication._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _It was freakin delicious but not the point!!!_
> 
> _Ok I admit getting wined and dined w the fancy meal u killed urself is weirdly hot_
> 
> _I didn’t realize I had this kink so thx for that_
> 
> _But istg if u start leaving dead bunnies on my porch I’ll murder u_
> 
> _I don’t need my kids crying over thumper’s corpse or picking up ur serial killer habits_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _I wouldn’t dream of it, baby. Promise._
> 
> _But I’d be very happy to cook for you again, the next time we have the opportunity._
> 
> _And if there are any other kinks you might like to explore, let me know._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Smooth_
> 
> _I’m gonna hold u to all of that Cujo_

* * *

 

The next two weeks passed by in a pleasant sort of blur, but Stiles had been right: making their schedules work together was a pain in the ass. Stiles didn’t have that many shifts at the bookstore, and his website work was much more flexible, but Peter worked Monday to Friday, from seven thirty in the morning, usually until four o’clock. Even if he ducked out when his class was dismissed at two thirty, instead of hanging around to clean up and prepare for the next day, Stiles’ pups usually got out of preschool at two.

Understandably, Stiles’ afternoons and evenings were often booked solid, spending time with the twins. And while the word _boyfriend_ was now being thrown around with almost embarrassing enthusiasm, Peter wasn’t keen on thrusting himself too quickly into the Stilinskis’ family time.

He dealt with kids almost every day, but he’d never actually dated anyone with small children of their own. It was challenging, trying to mesh the gradual, _getting to know you_ stage that he knew was healthy for the pups, with his baser, more selfish urges.

He wanted Stiles alone, eager, and naked. The smell of him had mostly faded from the apartment, and it was making Peter restless.

In the two weeks since their dinner date at his place, they’d kept up their normal, habitual chats, at least once a day either by phone or text, now with a longer phone call most evenings after the pups were in bed. They hadn’t spent another night together yet, but Peter had dropped by the bookstore during one of Stiles’ shifts for an impromptu Saturday lunch date and some handsy, teasing kisses.

They were more than a week into February now, and Peter didn’t have the luxury of forgetting that Valentine’s Day was just around the corner. Every day he stepped foot into Fáelán, he was inundated by pink and red construction paper cut into hearts and paper chains, tacked to every bulletin board. Even his own classroom wasn’t immune. The pups were enthralled by the festive decor, especially the shimmery foil hearts he’d strung from the ceiling, and they were very excited to make special Valentine cards for their parents or guardians, complete with their own handprints in fingerpaint. Any excuse to get shamelessly messy had them bouncing off the walls with glee, as usual.

It was a stressful holiday for a relationship as fresh and new as the one evolving between him and Stiles. Peter’s instinctive ideas for the perfect gift were all too much, too soon. He doubted that Stiles would accept a new watch, if Peter bought him the sleek, rose gold Omega he’d been eyeing recently. Upgrading his phone to the latest model would probably trigger a similar reaction. And booking a trip somewhere hot and sandy for March Break was definitely out of the question, no matter how much Peter wanted a few uninterrupted days to lounge on a private beach and lick the taste of seawater off every inch of Stiles’ fair, sun-warmed skin.

A simple evening of food and sex wasn’t even likely, since the fourteenth fell on a Wednesday this year, and they both worked. They’d penciled in a date Friday night, after Stiles had negotiated some kind of childcare trade off with the Martin-Whittemores in return for a romantic weekend of their own, but Peter didn’t intend to let the actual holiday pass by without doing anything at all.

Something appropriately restrained, but still impressive. He had a couple of ideas.

 

* * *

 

> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Omg u bought me flowers_
> 
> _U huge fucking sap I’m dying_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Omg omg roses and chocolates r u kidding this is the most cliche_
> 
> _I can’t believe u had this delivered to my job_
> 
> _Set the roses on the counter and customers r all swooning_
> 
> _My face hurts from laughing omg_
> 
> _Happy Vday u ridiculous perfect bastard :*_

* * *

 

“Oh my god,” Stiles said through the phone, the second Peter picked up his call with a warm _hello_. “Where are you?”

“At work,” Peter said, smugness fading slightly in the face of Stiles’ unexpected and very abrupt question. He sounded nearly panicked. “Tidying my classroom. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Just stay there, okay?” Peter heard the thud of a car door being shut. “Maybe make sure the gate knows I’m coming. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Stiles—” The call was already disconnected, leaving silence ringing in Peter’s ear. He looked down at his cell, but the screen didn’t offer any answers about what the hell was going on.

He sent a quick text asking exactly that, but didn’t expect an answer since Stiles was apparently driving, and used the intercom to notify the office that he expected someone shortly. Then it was simply a matter of _hurry up and wait_.

He considered abandoning his classroom in favour of loitering in the lobby or the parking lot, but there would be too many curious stares from the office staff if he went out there. If Stiles was agitated, for whatever reason, they didn’t need an audience.

If the second part of Peter’s gift had been a misstep, he’d really rather avoid feeding the school rumour mill.

Just over fifteen minutes later, Peter’s ears caught the sound of rapid footsteps out in the corridor— the dull, rubbery squeak of sneakers, not the clack of dress shoes— and a few seconds later, he recognized the drumming of Stiles’ heart.

He shut the drawer of craft supplies he’d been organizing, turning to the open door just as Stiles burst through it, all limbs. He was wearing a plaid shirt under his jacket, buttoned up and tucked in as if he’d come straight from the bookstore, though he should have been home by now if he’d picked up the twins from school. One of the laminated Fáelán guest passes was clipped crookedly to his collar.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked again. There were clusters of tiny desks between them, and he stayed where he was, maintaining that barrier until he knew what had Stiles looking so wild-eyed.

“You bought a fruit bouquet,” Stiles said, which was entirely true. Peter nodded, cautiously. “You got a fruit bouquet delivered to my house, with two little stuffed wolves, and a Valentine's card addressed to my kids. From _Uncle Peter_.”

“I did.” Stiles took a couple of steps around the desks, and Peter held his ground. There wasn’t any trace of anger souring the air, but Stiles’ mood still felt uncertain. “Did they like it?”

“Peter.” There was a deceptive, false calm in Stiles’ voice. It was perfectly level, and not remotely reassuring. “Are you trying to _date_ my kids too?”

“It sounds weird when you say it like that,” Peter said, bristling just a little. “They’re a huge part of your life. If we’re dating, seriously, I can’t exactly ignore that. I wouldn’t want to.” He took a breath, tapping his fingers against the storage shelf beside him. “But if it makes you uncomfortable, I can back off.”

“That’s not— no.” Stiles seemed to shake himself, and the distance between them shrank in four leggy strides. He reached out, running just the tips of his fingers gingerly around a smear of red on the front of Peter’s pale pink dress shirt, where he hadn’t managed to avoid being tapped by one of the pups’ paint-covered hands.

“First time I saw you,” Stiles said, staring at the paint. “I thought you might be Scotchgarded. Totally unfair, looking that good after wrangling kids for hours.”

“Werewolf reflexes. And I keep spare clothes here.” Stiles hummed, then lifted his eyes, meeting Peter’s gaze.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he said, flattening his palm against Peter’s ribs. “But first I’m going to invite you to dinner. Casa Stilinski. Tonight, if you want, with a standing invite for whenever. Just food, and the Pre-K company; you’re not staying the night.”

“Okay,” Peter said, and tilted his face up when Stiles leaned in. The press of soft lips against his own was much more enjoyable than the previous uncertainty. Stiles wasn’t boring, at least.

They parted after a few seconds, but stayed close, foreheads resting together.

“What are we having,” Peter asked after a short, comfortable silence, and the huff of Stiles’ laugh gusted warmly across his face.

“Spaghetti.” Stiles kissed him again, just as briefly. They were both smiling, and there was a very faint, but unmistakable dusting of pink high on Stiles’ cheeks. “And fruit for dessert, apparently.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, a bit more squishy sweetness for you all. Coming up, I think we'll have a few time skips, move this ahead.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading <3


	24. Fight Boards & The Gimmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember I mentioned time skips? Here we are, jumping from mid-February to the last week of March.

“Hey hey, Team Stilinski has arrived—” The twins barrelled past his legs, with Malia leading the charge. Somehow, coats were shed and sneakers were kicked off with barely any pause. They stampeded straight through the Martin-Whittemores’ foyer, toward the family room.

Stiles watched them go, listening for the squeals of greeting when they found Isaac. Normally, he’d be calling them back and reminding them of their good manners, but it was the first full day of March Break, and his peanuts were super stoked. They’d been vibrating right out of their skins since they woke up, all the way through breakfast and Saturday morning cartoons. It was barely eleven, and Stiles already felt like he’d run a marathon, so he was picking his battles. Putting their shoes and coats away properly was not the hill he wanted to die on today.

Most of the other employees of Shelf Indulgence were college students, and their Spring Break had already passed, last week. Stiles had done his part covering for a couple of coworkers who had trips planned, picking up extra shifts, and now he was reaping what he’d sown: a whole week with only website work, and no extra financial strain from this mini-vacation from the bookstore. Now he had a week basically free to spend with his kids, and with Peter, and enough fuck-around money saved up and budgeted so he wouldn’t have to worry about anything.

Jackson and Lydia still had work, though, and being the thoughtful and kindhearted soul he was, Stiles had offered to take Isaac for a couple of days of Team Stilinski bonding— an extended sleepover, basically, Saturday through Tuesday. The Martin-Whittemores had done the same thing with the twins last week during college Spring Break, when Lydia didn’t have any classes to teach, and Jackson had taken some vacation time.

Presently, having been pitilessly abandoned by his own spawn, Stiles bent down and shuffled two pairs of tiny sneakers into some semblance of order. He was in the process of gathering up his kids’ coats, when he finally noticed he had an audience.

In his defence, nobody ever actually spent any time in the fancy little _sitting room_ that opened up just to the right of the foyer. The whole room was bright and neat, perfectly elegant, but it was more for show than anything else.

Well, for show, and for entertaining Jackson’s parents, apparently.

“Hola, Martin-Whittemores,” Stiles said, offering a wave with the hand not holding Malia’s coat. “And Whittemores, full stop.” Jackson’s mom and dad, Lisa and David, offered a pair of rigid, very awkward smiles from their seat on the stylish, cream-coloured sofa that had somehow survived years of sharing a house with Isaac without any visible, permanent stains.

Looping the coats over his arm, Stiles shifted in his own shoes without taking them off, or moving farther into the house. He’d just dropped by to pick up Isaac, and probably hang out with Lydia and Jackson for a while, before leaving them to enjoy their child-free weekend.

He and Peter had certainly made the most of last weekend, peanut-free, so it was only fair to return the favour.

Faced with the unexpected presence of the Whittemores, he didn’t really know what his next move should be. Lisa and David didn't dislike him, but they didn't _like_ him that much either; it wasn't like his own dad, who'd been treating Jackson like a second Stilinski son for years. And they didn't visit Jackson and Lydia enough for this to ping as a normal occurrence that Stiles could mostly ignore. Thankfully, Lydia was feeling benevolent enough to rescue him.

“Stiles, sweetie, you’ve got perfect timing.” She swept out of the sitting room in a cloud of strawberry blond curls and subtle vanilla perfume, nabbing him by the elbow. Even through the layers of his coat and shirts, he could feel the dull bite of her nails. “Isaac so excited for his weekend with the twins, I don’t think he even tasted his breakfast. You know how much he loves spending time with his best friends.”

There was a low muttering back in the sitting room, obviously agitated even to human hearing. Stiles glanced in, over the top of Lydia’s head, and saw Jackson and his parents engaged in a hushed conversation. By the pinched look on Jackson’s face, and the flash of gold in his eyes, it probably wasn’t the friendliest discussion.

“Let’s go check on the babies,” Lydia said, giving Stiles’ arm a yank. He followed where she led without hesitation, tossing his kids' coats over the banister of the stairs as they passed by. The second they were out of visual range of the sitting room, he pinned her with a heavy, questioning stare.

Unsurprisingly, she simply raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows at him, and pressed one finger against the pink bow of her lips. Bypassing the family room, where all three kids were laughing and climbing over that larger and much more comfortable sofa set, Lydia kept them walking around the corner, to the left, and into the Martin-Whittemores’ pristine kitchen.

The room was like a mutated doughnut shape that opened into to the family room, with an island in the centre, cupboards lining two walls, and a small breakfast nook poking out the back. Stiles knew that the three Martin-Whittemores always ate together in that cosy little nook, tucked around the small table, instead of in the formal dining room at the front of the house. Even when he and the twins stayed over for meals, all six of them were likely to try and squeeze into that familiar space, willing to deal with cramped place settings and too many elbows, rather than move to the other room.

Pretty much the only time the dining room was used was when they had a really full house— on those occasions when it was Lydia and Jackson’s turn to host a holiday meal, or during their occasional, very casual family dinner parties. With Stiles, his kids, his dad, Mel, and Lydia’s mom as guests, sometimes even Jackson's parents once in a blue moon, they needed all the seats and space they could get. And somehow, that oddly formal room felt much less stuffy when they were all jostling for food around the big oak table.

Dragging him bodily over to the butcher block island, Lydia slid a small whiteboard and marker across the smooth wood, before immediately going to work scribbling on a board of her own.

Oh god. The fight boards. Stiles barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He hunkered down on his elbows, slumping on the island.

The _fight board whiteboards_ were actually kind of ingenious, and absolutely the most insane thing Stiles had ever seen in his life. Small whiteboards and low-odor markers, kept in strategic places around the Martin-Whittemore house. Used whenever Lydia and Jackson wanted to have a discussion, or more often an argument, without Isaac hearing anything, and also without always retreating to their soundproof bedroom.

Lydia insisted on calling them _communication boards_ , but that sounded agonizingly uncool, and didn’t rhyme. So, fight boards.

The question of why they didn't just text each other had never been answered to Stiles' satisfaction, but whatever. It worked for them.

After a couple moments of quick, precise writing, Lydia turned her board so he could read it.

[ _They want to take Isaac for March Break. “Visit with the grandparents”_ ]

The loaded quotation marks around _visit with the grandparents_ , coupled with the tightly pressed line of Lydia’s mouth, spoke volumes about her opinion of that idea.

Stiles uncapped his marker, scratching out a few words. His handwriting was significantly less graceful than Lydia’s, but it was legible.

[ _You and Jax aren’t down w/ that I guess?_ ]

Lydia levelled him with a scathing look, then shook her head no, grabbed a piece of paper towel, and wiped her board clean.

[ _Of course not. David and Lisa aren’t happy either. They love Isaac but this nonsense isn’t even their idea. It has Alpha Whittemore’s paws all over it and they’re caught in the middle._ ]

Stiles straightened up a bit, reading the note again before Lydia wiped the board, writing more.

[ _It’s all some kind of stupid dick waving and I’m not going to roll over and let it happen. W. Pack can’t just take my baby on a whim because they think they know best._ ]

The marker squeaked against the plastic board, as Lydia’s strokes got harder and more emphatic. She underlined _my baby_ with three bold lines, and when Stiles glanced up from the board into her face, he saw her eyes were gleaming with a hint of wetness, and a whole hell of a lot of simmering fury.

It was all assumptions and accusations now, which wasn’t the best kind of evidence to bring to the cops. And anyway, getting the police involved would burn some significant bridges— the law firm where Jackson worked, and his father was a partner, was built on Whittemore money and Pack controlled. The downpayment on their swanky house in a nice neighbourhood had come from Jackson’s trust fund, so that was relatively safe, but if Jackson, and by extension Isaac, became Omegas, they’d lose a lot of very valuable social connections. And they’d lose family, even if it was asshole family.

This situation was a minefield, and they needed to take every step with care.

Stiles set his board flat on the island, and grabbed Lydia’s wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze. With his other hand, he wrote out a reply.

[ _You know I got your back. Nobody’s touching your kid I’ll kill the 1st fucker that tries_ ]

Lydia dropped her marker, lacing their fingers together and holding on tight.

“I know that, sweetie,” she said, quietly but with fiery conviction. “All three of us would. It’s just… complicated. They’re in a bad spot.” She nodded back towards the sitting room, and Jackson’s parents.

“Tough shit,” Stiles whispered, barely louder than a breath.

The reason the Whittemores had moved to Beacon Hills in the first place was to put some distance between themselves and their Pack. They weren’t Omegas, but they also weren’t toeing the line with a lot of the overbearing traditionalism their Alpha enforced— Lisa and David weren’t always the most progressively-minded shifters around, but at least they didn’t try to claim that having human friends would hold Isaac back. They might think that all-shifter schools were better for younger kids, safer or whatever, but they hadn’t refused when Jackson told them he wanted to go to an integrated high school. That decision hadn’t been well-received by the majority of their Pack, and it was a large part of the reason they’d left Sacramento when they did. _Out of sight, out of mind_ had been the general strategy, and they regularly made efforts to ingratiate themselves in their Pack in other ways, maintaining their social standing despite their _rebellious son_.

All that drama wasn’t common knowledge. It was something Jackson had revealed back when they were eighteen and waxing nostalgic about shit, playing drunk Mario Kart in Danny’s basement one summer night.

Lydia sent him a small, grateful smile before taking back her hand, and grabbing her marker.

[ _Lisa and David won’t do more than apply pressure_ ] Lydia wrote, while Stiles craned around to watch instead of waiting for the finished product. [ _And you can tell they hate pushing this. I don’t know if there are more W. Pack in town right now, but I suspect there will be soon. Alpha W isn’t good at taking no for an answer. He will push this. Bastard._ ]

[ _You want to keep Isaac here??_ ] Stiles wrote, because that would be understandable, given the situation. There was almost no chance the Whittemore Pack would try _permanently_ kidnapping the little dude, but subjecting Isaac to a week of wolfy boot camp to _smarten him up_ was a very conceivable, very fucking crazy possibility.

If sleepover weekend was a bust, all three kids would be gutted. But they’d work something out.

Surprisingly, Lydia shook her head.

[ _No, I want you to take him if you’re willing. He’ll be just as safe with you, maybe even safer than home right now. They’ll have a harder time tracking him down and hopefully won’t be stupid enough to try and snatch him from the Sheriff’s house._ ] Stiles could feel his hackles rising at the very idea. But hey, he knew where to find the spare key to the gun cabinet in his dad’s bedroom, and which of the bullets in the lockbox were police-grade wolfsbane. He also had the entire Beacon County Sheriff’s Department on his side, if he wanted to keep things legal. And maybe even Peter too, though the legality there might get dicey.

Jackson and Lydia might be in the awkward position of playing this with kid gloves, but Stiles was a free agent. The Whittemores had a hell of a rude awakening coming if they thought they could intimidate a Stilinski, or fuck with one of his kids. And yeah, he counted Isaac under that umbrella, one hundred percent.

He drummed his fingers against the counter as he scrawled a reply.

[ _If they try anything I might need help burying bodies_ ] Lydia smirked sharply at his answer, with steel in her eyes and tension in the set of her jaw.

[ _Oh please,_ ] she wrote. [ _All you need is a decent lawyer, and I happen to know a great one._ ]

 

* * *

 

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Hey so “Sunday at the park w uncle Peter” might be a problem_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Why? What’s wrong?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Trouble w Whittemore pack_
> 
> _U remember I told u they sorta gave lyds and jax a hard time at wolf moon?_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I remember you mentioning they thought the boy wasn’t being properly socialized. Despite blatant evidence to the contrary, obvious to anyone with eyes and half a brain._
> 
> _And I told you Whittemore Pack is full of idiotic snobs._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Yeah well those snobs r being extra idiotic and a pain in my ass_
> 
> _They sent Jackson’s parents to take Zac for the break w/o warning_
> 
> _Lyds and Jax said no, obvs. Zac’s hanging at my place like we planned_
> 
> _Jax’s parents will back off but I’m p sure some other assholes r too stubborn to take the hint_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _You think they’ll try to take him anyway._
> 
> _I haven’t heard anything about visiting Whittemores in town. If they’re here on orders to collect someone out of Hale territory, their Alpha should have contacted Talia._
> 
> _Maybe he “forgot.” That’ll go over well._
> 
> _It’s likely they'll try something with Isaac, you’re right._
> 
> _Alphas can develop a very domineering sense of entitlement. “Alpha knows best” and all that bullshit. It sometimes gets very ugly._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Ur preaching to the choir babe_
> 
> _But yeah I’m thinking the park might be too risky. Too wide open, too many people, distractions_
> 
> _Like a big sign “hey assholes come snatch this kid”_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _You’re not wrong about the risk. But I wouldn’t let anything happen. Neither would you._
> 
> _You’ve got wolfsbane mace in your pocket right now, don’t you._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _U know me babe. Always like to b prepared_
> 
> _Park is out. Don’t wanna freak the kids out looking over my shoulder that much_
> 
> _This sucks_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I may have an alternative._
> 
> _What about coming out to the Hale house? Big yard, jungle gym, and Talia’s pups would be ecstatic to have some playmates._
> 
> _And Whittemore cronies wouldn’t dare try anything while we’re there. The fallout would be catastrophic._
> 
> _If Talia doesn’t know they’re here or what they plan to do, they’re already seriously pushing their luck._
> 
> _It’s not worth igniting a full blown Pack feud over a young, wayward wolf raising their pup how they see fit. Not even Thom Whittemore is that moronic._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _R u srs? Playdate at the Hale house?_
> 
> _U think it’d be cool w Talia??_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I don’t see why not._
> 
> _I was going to ask if I could bring her pups to the park with us anyway. They’ve all be chattering about a Stilinski playdate. Loudly._
> 
> _And they’re chattering at me, because I smell like you._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Awww that’s so cute and sorta hot_
> 
> _But hey that could actually really work_
> 
> _God my bf is so smart_
> 
> _Ur brain is a massive turn on_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Thank you, baby. I know._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Hot damn that modesty too_
> 
> _So sexy_
> 
> _Ok I gotta clear this w L &J before I call Talia. Shouldn't b a prob_
> 
> _Sunday still good for u??_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Works for me. I’d be at the house tomorrow anyway._
> 
> _This just means I won’t have the park as an excuse to be late for dinner._
> 
> _Or skip it entirely._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Shit is this ur family dinner Sunday???_
> 
> _I don’t wanna crash that dude_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Every second Sunday, yes._
> 
> _And you wouldn’t be crashing. You’d be my guests._
> 
> _To be honest, Talia’s been on my ass to invite you for a couple of weeks._
> 
> _I kept putting her off, because you and Beth becoming texting buddies was enough stress in my life for the moment. But I suppose I can’t keep you two apart forever._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I have a lunch date w her next week u dickhead_
> 
> _U running jerkass interference can’t stop a love as true and pure as ours_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Just remember that your dad is warming up to me. Bethany isn’t the only source for embarrassing childhood stories._
> 
> _I’ll check with Talia, see whether or not she’s alright with four extra guests tomorrow._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _He’s warming up bc ur bribing him w contraband_
> 
> _Don’t think I missed the candy wrappers in the garbage last time I brought him lunch at work_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Wild accusations, and no solid proof. I admit nothing._
> 
> _Though I’m not sure how I feel about the county sheriff being that godawful at hiding evidence._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Hey if Talia’s not cool w team Stilinski dropping by short notice that’s no prob_
> 
> _I can find smth else to entertain the rugrats_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Let me ask her, sweetheart. I’m sure it’ll be fine._

 

* * *

 

Stiles was incredibly relieved to find Peter waiting outside his apartment building when they drove up, early Sunday afternoon. There had already been fussing almost to tantrum levels when it was explained that no, they would not be visiting Peter’s place and meeting Hobbes. _No kitty today_ had not been a popular answer, and there had been a few tears, but fuck, he wasn’t setting three little kids loose in Peter’s apartment without asking the guy ahead of time. And these kids had never owned a cat or spent any time around one before— Lydia’s old dog, Prada, was the only pet they had semi-regular contact with. He’d stayed home with her mom when she was away at college, and Natalie had grown so attached that the little dude still lived with her now, in his golden years.

None of those excellent reasons to postpone the kitty meet-and-greet were good enough to appease his current audience, however. Lia, especially, still had an epic sulk on, hunched in her car seat with her arms crossed, brows furrowed, and little fangs protruding over her pouting lips. Unlike Scott, she could smell Hobbes on Stiles and Peter’s clothes, and that frequent reminder of the cat’s existence did nothing for her level of patience. Even queuing up her favourite Kidz Bop playlist on the car stereo hadn’t elicited the barest flicker of a smile since they’d left home. The boys were just a bit sullen and quiet, Scotty worse than Isaac. Probably because the peanuts had spent a lot more time with Peter and the Hales than Isaac had, and seemed more attached.

At least Peter was a nice visual distraction from the miniature death glare Stiles was getting through the rear view mirror. Jeans that looked snug in all the right places, a dark brown henley skimming his chest, and his green canvas jacket— Stiles whistled, giving Peter a slow once-over when he climbed into the passenger seat.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Stiles said, leaning over for a brief scent marking and a kiss on the cheek. They were still playing things pretty discreet around the kids, affectionate but restrained. The kids knew Dad and Uncle Peter were boyfriends, and that they sometimes had cuddly sleepovers, like Grandpa and Mel did. With Malia’s nose, it wasn't like they could hide that, even if they’d wanted to.

But unlike Grandpa and Mel, Stiles and Peter didn’t have any sleepovers at Casa Stilinski. It was mostly Stiles’ hesitance that kept the PDA very chaste where the peanuts might see or hear anything, but Peter hadn’t complained yet.

The idea of having _cuddly sleepovers_ more often was immensely tempting, but that would require Peter staying overnight, and Stiles was determined to take that part slowly. Even if it really was just a sleepover, without sex but with the fantastic feeling of curling up next to Peter’s solid heat, there was a certain sense of permanence and other implications attached to the kids waking up in the morning and finding Peter sitting at the breakfast table.

He and Peter had agreed to give this a serious try, sure, but _trying_ wasn’t any guarantee that things were going to work long term. This was all pretty new; they’d only been properly dating for about two months. The weeks of lengthy chatting and increasingly flirty texts before that didn’t count.

Stiles was flying blind here, trying not to fuck this up. He’d had sex with a few people since the kids were born— a couple of one-offs, when the stars aligned to provide the opportunity and inclination— and he’d had some very rare, dismal attempts at dating, but Peter was the only datemate Malia and Scott had ever met. Peter was the only person Stiles had gone out with more than twice, in at least six years.

Stiles couldn’t really afford to entertain the kind of starry-eyed romanticism required to consider the possibility of _permanence_ at this point. It was too soon to take that risk, for his kids.

Being a dad would always take priority, even if Peter was disgustingly great. For fucksake, it was like Stiles had gone to Build-A-Boyfriend and custom made a snarky, sharp-witted shifter, who was great with kids, and had an ass that would not quit. Even his weirder or more annoying habits— like the way he kept his socks and underwear meticulously organized by colour, the fact that he was the kind of freak who loved pineapple on pizza, or his frequent sarcastic commentary on Stiles’ _eclectic_ taste in music— weren’t anywhere close to deal breakers. Most of them were frustratingly _cute_.

“I’m not a piece of meat to be ogled,” Peter said, desert dry, then reached out and gripped Stiles’ thigh with one strong hand. The kids wouldn’t be able to see much, if they cared to look, which was lucky. The touch was _very_ friendly, too high to be innocent, creeping up in a slow, teasing caress. It was over in an instant, and Peter didn’t look remotely contrite about the wash of heat he’d just sent flooding through Stiles’ veins. He smirked at Stiles’ playfully annoyed huff of breath, and turned to look in the backseat.

“Hey now, what’s with the grumps?” Peter sounded surprised, pulling off his sunglasses to address the kids. “Are you not happy to see me, pups?”

That was enough to shake Scott and Isaac up, and they began babbling a stream of protests and greetings. Of course they were thrilled to see Uncle Peter. He was so much cooler than mean old Stiles.

Malia did them one better, letting out a shrill, undulating whine and squirming in her harness.

“Uncle Peter!” Her fangs were still popped, making her lisp, but that didn’t make the strident, pleading tone any less obvious. “I wanna meet Hobbes, please, _please,_ tell dad he’s being _stupid_ and _mean_ , I _wanna_ —”

“Malia Zelda Claudia,” Stiles said sharply, channelling the terrible power of the full name, and shifting around to look at her screwed up, reddening face. They were barrelling toward a meltdown. If at all possible, he’d rather show up at the Hales' with only the bottle of wolfsbane infused wine he had in the trunk, instead of a whining, screaming daughter. “We do not call people stupid. I already said no Hobbes today, and I meant it. But I bet if you ask nicely, and fix that attitude, Peter might let you meet him another day.”

“I wanna _now_ ,” Malia whimpered pitifully, which was better than an ear-splitting wail, but still not good. She kicked the back of Peter’s seat, hunkering down with blotchy, flushed cheeks and watery eyes glowing gold.

“Oh dear,” Peter said, with exaggerated concern, shooting Stiles a brief, reassuring glance. It felt like solidarity, and good god, it made something somersault in Stiles’ chest. “It sounds like someone’s got a bad case of The Gimmes. That’s not good. Boys, did you catch it too, or are you okay?”

All three kids looked about as quizzical as Stiles felt, even if Malia still had her frown going strong. They exchanged glances with each other, then turned back to Peter.

“What’s Gimmes?” Scott asked, while Isaac, with his fingers in his mouth, mumbled: “Whassat?”

Peter’s eyebrows lifted, rising toward his hairline in an expression of total shock. He made a point of looking at each child, before turning to Stiles. The drama was hilarious, with Peter hamming it up in full kid-mode, but Stiles managed to keep his own face schooled into a serious mask.

“You never told them about The Gimmes?” he said, aghast, and even though Stiles knew it was an act, he felt the weirdest stab of something like guilt for depriving his children of this knowledge, which Peter was presenting as vital. Damn, the guy was good.

“What’s Gimmes?” Scott asked again, more insistently, but still calm enough to be polite. Malia’s eyes had faded back to brown, and were wide as saucers as Peter started to explain.

“The Gimmes,” he said, with a cadence Stiles recognized as somebody comfortable and experienced with storytelling to kids. “Happen when someone wants something very much. They want it so much, and they want it _right now_ , until it’s all they can think about, and that’s when they can catch The Gimmes. The Gimmes are like a big, hungry wolf that wants to gobble everything up, no matter if they’re allowed to or not, no matter if it’s unfair. They can make people forget their manners, and say and do mean things. The Gimmes don’t even care if it hurts, or it’s not nice, because they just want to eat and eat and eat.”

All three kids were completely enthralled, staring at Peter. Stiles was a little bit amazed too, to be honest.

“Now,” Peter continued. “Anyone can catch The Gimmes, grown-ups and pups like you. All the pups in my class get The Gimmes sometimes, and Laura, Derek, and Cora, too. But it’s important that, even when we feel The Gimmes snarling and begging to be fed, right in here—” He tapped two fingers against his chest. “That we don’t let them boss us around. Because we don’t like acting like big, bad wolves, do we? Being greedy, grabby, and rude can hurt people’s feelings, and that’s not very nice. Especially when we could try to have a little patience instead.”

Stiles noticed when Malia’s attention flitted to him, and the tangled mess of her tiny fingers, clenched in her lap. She only looked him in the eye for a second or two, before she was staring down at her own knees instead, twisting her hands.

Before Stiles could maneuver out of his seat belt enough, Peter was already reaching for Lia’s wringing hands, laying one of his own big palms over both of hers.

“Everybody gets The Gimmes, now and then,” Peter said firmly, waiting for Malia to lift her head before continuing. Her cheeks were wet, and Stiles couldn’t breathe properly over the lump in his throat. “Because everybody feels greedy sometimes. It’s normal, and it’s okay, as long as we try our very best not to let them boss us around, and make sure to apologise when The Gimmes get too big and bossy and we hurt somebody’s feelings. And a little bit of patience, maybe a little bit of fairness or waiting our turn, chases The Gimmes away every time. As long as we remember that, it’s all okay.”

Malia sniffed wetly, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her jacket. She took a tissue when Stiles offered her the box. Peter grabbed one too, then proceed to dab gently at her little teary, sweaty face.

“Can you blow your nose for me, honey?” he asked, and Malia gave a jerky nod before filling the car with her normal, raucous honk. Peter didn’t flinch at the sudden, blaring noise, just waited until the girl was done, folded the tissue, and gave her pinkened nose another wipe with the dry side. “There we go.”

“I’m sorry,” Lia said, in a very small voice. “Daddy, I’m sorry The Gimmes got big, and I wasn’t nice. I wanna be good, and wait my turn.”

“Thank you, princess,” Stiles managed to say, without his voice cracking once. It felt like he had a fist crammed in behind his tonsils, and his eyes were gritty. “You’re a very good girl, and I really appreciate you apologizing.”

“I’m sorry too,” Scott added, and Isaac’s head bobbed in a forceful nod.

“Me too,” he said, then proved that he still had the occasional trouble with his Rs by finishing with a warbling: “ _Sowwy_ , Uncle Stiles.”

“Thanks guys.” It was worth almost choking himself out with the seat belt when he clambered out of his seat, only managing to undo the buckle when he was already halfway stretched into the back of the car. The buckle finally unfastened under his mashing thumb, and he was free to lean farther, close enough to press kisses against all three little foreheads.

Before sinking back in the driver’s seat, he made a brief detour, cupping one hand against Peter’s jaw and pecking him softly on the lips.

“Thanks,” he murmured, scraping his fingers against the bristles of Peter’s barely-there stubble. Peter’s mouth tipped up at the corner, and he rubbed his face into Stiles’ palm.

“Uncle Peter,” Scott said. “When it’s okay, can we please meet Hobbes?”

“Absolutely,” Peter replied, after Stiles gave him a tiny nod. “Your dad and I will pick a good day soon, and I’ll ask Hobbes when he’d like company. Then you can all meet him, I promise.”

“Okay, amigos,” Stiles said, fastening himself back in. “If everybody’s feeling good, we gotta get this show on the road. I’m sort of in a fire lane here. Everybody cool? Sound off: Scotty boy?”

“Yep,” Scott chirped. The miasma of bad mood that had been choking the car was fading like smoke in a strong wind, doubtlessly to be replaced with excitement as they headed out toward the Preserve, and the kids remembered this was a playdate.

“My man Zac?”

“Yeah!”

“Princess Lia?” Stiles glanced in the rear view, tilting his head to meet his daughter’s gaze through the mirror. She still looked shaky around the edges, and she had her crumpled tissue clenched tightly in her fist, the same way she still held onto her old blankie sometimes.

“Yeah,” she said, and gave him a thumb’s up and a small, wobbly smile. It was a spark of genuine brightness peeking through the previous gloom.

“Peter,” Stiles finished, shifting the car into gear. “You good, babe?”

“Never better,” Peter said, pushing his sunglasses back on. It didn’t sound flippant.

Stiles bit his lip to stop anything stupid from spilling out of his mouth, giving Peter’s knee a quick squeeze before pulling away from the curb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, the twin's full names are Malia Zelda Claudia Stilinski and Scott Grayson Janusz Stilinski. John's father was named Janusz (and John's full name is John Karol Stilinski).
> 
> I also have a full name for Stiles. But I don't have a middle name chosen for Peter yet.


	25. Amateur Hour Stalking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was requested that I give the chapters proper names, to make it easier to find specific parts/scenes, and hey, it’s a good idea. I tried to shy away from giving things away, while still providing a decent reference for re-reading and hunting things down. Let me know what you think, and feel free to ask if you have any requests to make the story more accessible.

Peter glanced out the side mirror again, triple checking that the black Lincoln Navigator was still trailing a couple of cars behind them, glaringly conspicuous to anyone paying the slightest attention. It was embarrassing, really. Whoever these idiots were, Alpha Whittemore clearly hadn’t sent them on this assignment based on their surveillance skills.

The pups sounded reasonably distracted, chattering among themselves and singing along with the stereo. Stiles was humming, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Stiles,” Peter said, without fanfare or whispering. Just a steady, level voice that wasn’t meant to draw the pups’ attention.

“I see them,” Stiles replied, just as nonchalant. “On our tail since we left my place. So subtle, right?”

God, what a clever, arousing little bastard he’d found in this human. Peter didn’t trust luck, but he did trust his own instincts; he’d known a good thing when he saw it, and was quick and canny enough to snatch it for himself.

“Oh, absolutely.” Peter stretched his legs, smirking over at Stiles’ profile. “Super spies, definitely. They’re operating on another level of sophistication.”

“You think they’ll follow the whole way?” Shoulder checking, Stiles switched lanes. “Not a lot of traffic headed out to the Preserve.” Peter was wondering the same thing. The Lincoln was doing a piss poor job of avoiding notice now, but when they made the next turn off in a few minutes, they’d likely be the only cars on the road. Tailing them out to the Hale property would mean abandoning even the faintest suggestion of _covert surveillance_.

“I’m not sure,” Peter said, with an unbothered shrug. Still, he was keeping a very sharp eye out for anything else suspicious, in case Get Smart behind them was actually just a distraction. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

 

* * *

 

The Lincoln did follow them, keeping precisely four car lengths back all the way out the wooded highway. Not close enough to be tailgating, but not hanging back either. When Stiles turned off the asphalt and onto the Preserve road, the other car slowed, as if considering, before driving past and continuing down the highway.

“They’ll probably park,” Peter said. “And keep going on foot, skulk around. If they approach too close to the house, I’m sure my sister will want a word with them.” Peter hadn’t outlined the details of the situation to Talia yet; he’d simply told her he’d be bringing a few guests to family dinner, without offering any reasons. Explaining things face-to-face would let him gauge her reaction better than over the phone, and make it that much harder for her to keep him out of the loop, however she wanted to deal with this. She probably wouldn't be too thrilled about the audacious, disrespectful trespassing.

Unless it wasn't trespassing. If Alpha Whittemore had contacted her already, and she’d actually agreed to this. Peter didn’t imagine that was very likely; kidnapping children from their loving parents, for the sake of some kind of hardline traditionalism, wasn’t really Talia’s style. But in this case, with these kind of stakes, he wasn't taking any chances.

Isaac was a relatively interesting little boy— pampered but not bratty, and very pliable to the whims and moods of the Stilinski twins, eager to follow their lead. Malia and Scott were undeniably attached, as was Stiles, so anything traumatic that happened to him would affect them as well.

Peter had already begun thinking of all three pups as nascent packmates. He could feel the faintest threads of that bond beginning to tickle in the back of his brain, quivering with potential. It was stronger with the twins, but he didn’t doubt that Isaac would follow where they led. And Peter protected his own.

“Remind me to text Lydia,” Stiles said, as they rumbled over the packed dirt road. “Once we get settled. I’m giving her regular updates, as ordered.” Peter hummed his agreement, scanning the trees with the window rolled down, on the slim chance he might catch an unfamiliar scent. He felt safer here, with Hale woods around them, than he had on the city streets. Not totally relaxed, but the situation was easier to control without so many other people and cars around.

A car accident would have been an excellent tactic, if the Whittemores were serious enough about this operation to get their hands dirty. Something more than a fender bender, enough to put any humans in the car out of commission, but not enough to cause any lasting injuries to werewolves, even one as young as Isaac. The pup could vanish in the confusion, and the fact that he was missing probably wouldn’t be immediately noticed.

When they pulled up to the house, Beth’s car was already in the driveway, but there wasn’t any sign of their mother’s Bentley. He’d seen it two weeks ago, when she’d shown up for their last family dinner. Neither the car or her company for the meal was always guaranteed, even when she was in town. The fact that Bryony had taken the car out of storage likely meant she intended to stick around California for a while; Peter wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“We’re _heeere_ ,” Stiles sing-songed, high-pitched and sounding enough like the girl from Poltergeist to make Peter snort out a laugh. The reference went over the pups’ heads, of course. They were just excited to arrive, cheering their little hearts out. “Butts in your seats ‘til I come around, thank you. Peter, wanna grab the wine out of the back for me?”

The whole production of getting the pups sorted out only took a few minutes; Stiles seemed to have it down to a fairly smooth system, born of long practice. Malia decided a hug from her dad was in order after her minor tantrum, then clung determinedly to Stiles’ neck until he hoisted her up on his hip.

“There’s my baby girl,” Stiles said, peppering her cheek with kisses before blowing a noisy raspberry that made her squeal and giggle. Peter came around the car, wine bottle in hand, and was immediately fenced in by two small, wide-eyed boys.

“Uncle Peter,” Scott started to say, tugging on the hem of Peter’s shirt. Isaac held up both arms, intentions crystal clear.

“Okay, boys.” Peter passed the wine over to Stiles’ empty hand, then scooped up both pups, letting them perch comfortably in the cradle of his arms. Scott pressed his face into the side of Peter’s throat, scent marking without hesitation.

“Got some cuddle monsters today,” Stiles said, looking Peter over with a broad, handsome grin that was all crinkled eyes and undisguised fondness. If it made something heavy and warm settle in Peter’s chest, now wasn’t the time to acknowledge that. Not with a house of Hales waiting for them.

Lugging the kids up to the door, Peter motioned for Stiles to open it without bothering to ring the bell, and the five of them shuffled inside shortly thereafter. Peter’s sense of smell was overrun with the boys leaning on his chest— an amalgam of peanut butter, bananas, and something purely sugary, cut with the tang of Albuterol— and he didn’t bother to listen for anyone else in the house. Not when Talia was already stepping out of the kitchen.

She didn’t swoop in and fold Stiles into a hug without warning, like Peter had watched her do before the Wolf Moon. Now, anytime she greeted the Stilinskis, she always waited for that split second of acknowledgement and acceptance that came when Stiles met her gaze, smiling.

“Hello,” Talia said, spreading her hands wide. Stiles came to her, leaning in for a quick hug and mutual scent marking. Peter felt a frisson of uncharitable satisfaction when Malia twisted to look back at him over her dad’s shoulder, turning away from Talia with an unsure frown. Being that close to a strange Alpha would make most young wolves a little nervous, but Malia was an Omega who’d never had a real bond with any Alpha, as far as Peter knew. Any natural skittishness would likely be magnified by her unfamiliarity with the force of an Alpha spark.

Peter had been around Alphas all his life; his mother had already been Hale Alpha when he was born, and they were a well-respected family, with connections that spread far and ran deep. More than one conclave of Alphas had been held on Hale land in Peter’s lifetime, and his mother had maintained a network of friends and colleagues who occasionally visited the house.

Bryony hadn’t been called in to mediate disputes between Packs in the same way Talia often was now— or, at least, she hadn’t been after the Anagnorisis. Before that, Bryony had been rather well known as a _problem solver_ , offering a firm hand in difficult situations, but that ended when werewolves were thrust into the public eye. Unsurprisingly, her typical solutions were too vicious for the new world order.

The potency and power that Alphas seemed to radiate had never scared Peter, or made him uneasy. It had always made him hungry.

There was a thunder of running footsteps upstairs, hard and quick, and an instant later a brown and green blur was shooting down the staircase and taking flight. Talia whipped around in time to catch Cora mid air, before her eager, full-body lunge could make contact and bowl Stiles over.

“None of that, gremlin.” Talia hiked her youngest up under one arm. Cora squirmed, growling playfully and gnawing on her mother’s fingers with blunt teeth.

“Hey Cora,” Stiles said, laughing with only a small tremor of surprise. This probably wasn’t his first sneak attack by a werewolf pup, but Cora could be particularly enthusiastic.

“Come on in,” Talia said, while Stiles and Peter set their trio of kids down and proceeded to take care of coats and shoes. “As you can see, we’re still having a pouncing problem. Cora, I’m going to put you down to play, but only if you’re calm.”

Cora went completely limp, as if her strings had been cut, and Talia sighed. Peter bit back a laugh, because no matter how funny it was to watch Cora’s dramatics, he had to teach the hyperactive little gremlin next year. Best not encourage bad habits with positive reinforcement, or he’d be the one suffering for it too.

The kids headed upstairs, with Cora leading the way. They were deep into a game of jungle in the playroom, apparently, and if Cora’s fast-paced babbling was to be believed, it was vital that Malia, Scott, and Isaac decide what kind of animals they wanted to be. Peter caught enough of the details to determine that Laura was a unicorn, and Derek was an elephant. Cora was a monkey, but also a lion. Naturally.

“Talia, we need a word in private,” Peter said. He brushed one hand over the nape of Stiles’ neck, with the excuse of tucking in his shirt tag, and in the process, exposed the edge of a slowly fading hickey and laid a fresh scent marking on top of his sister’s.

Talia glanced between Peter and Stiles’ faces, curious, then inclined her head. “Alright. My office. Brendan, I’m headed to the office for a minute with Peter and Stiles. Keep an ear on the pups, please?”

“Got it, Talia,” Peter heard Brendan answer from the kitchen, at conversational volume just like Talia had used. Brendan then immediately started filling Beth and Marin in on the gist of what their human senses hadn’t heard.

Talia’s office used to be their father’s study, and still had the same dark wooden bookshelves lining every wall, and the heavy antique desk. Peter remembered climbing those shelves as a very young boy, and the candies his father had kept in his desk drawer, liberally distributed whenever his pups came to him teary-eyed or in need of a hug and a cheering up.

When James Hale had inhabited the room, however, there hadn’t been a sleek laptop and two huge flat screen monitors set up on the desk, covered in multicoloured post-it notes. Or stacks of academic journals, newspapers, magazines, and research notes piled on every available surface. Talia’s private workspace was always barely contained, bizarrely organized chaos, which was something Peter had found incredibly annoying when they were teenagers, and oddly amusing now that he didn’t have to live with it.

Bryony’s former office was now Brendan’s, since it was spacious enough for his desks and drafting table, and whatever else a freelance architect required in a workspace. It was also kept somewhat tidier than his wife’s office, but that wasn’t saying much. Both rooms were entirely soundproof, which made them rare havens for privacy in a house of werewolves.

“Sorry about the—” Talia's wave encompassed the general state of shambles around them. She moved a thick stack of papers held together with a large rubber band out of one of the guest chairs, leaving two seats empty. “I’ve got too many projects on the go, and things got away from me. Have a seat.”

Talia settled into her desk chair, setting down the papers she’d picked up, and shifting a few more off the centre of the desk and into a vaguely neat pile. Stiles was gawking, not quite surreptitiously, at some of the scattered reports and research, until Peter physically steered him down to sit.

“Before we start,” Peter said, lowering into his own seat. “Text Lydia.”

“Oh crap, yeah.” Stiles’ phone was out of his pocket and in his hand in an instant. “Thanks, babe.”

Talia slid her chair forward, folding her hands on the desktop and levelling Peter with an unruffled but expectant look. It was her _perfectly poised Alpha_ face, all serene composure without a hint of her real feelings, and Peter wanted to gag, just a little.

Then the corner of her mouth tipped up fractionally, and Peter realised she’d done it on purpose, to fuck with him.

“My initial guesses are you either murdered someone,” she said. “Or you’re getting married.”

“None of the above, this time,” Peter said, while Stiles sputtered at the notion. His text sent with a swoosh of sound. “Did you know that Thom Whittemore was going to send people to abduct that pup upstairs? Against his parents’ will?”

Talia’s expression went slack with shock, then hardened to pure steel, eyes narrowing. It seemed like a genuine enough reaction.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t. I haven’t spoken to Thom since we were in Oregon, and that was months ago. You’re absolutely sure? Why would they do this?”

“I wouldn't say _absolutely_ sure. Call it a very strong hunch.” Peter laid his hand on Stiles’ forearm. “You want to explain?”

Stiles outlined the situation, with effusive gestures to hammer his agitation home: the visit from Jackson’s parents, the discussion with Lydia, and then their unsubtle tail on the drive today. Talia listened in near silence, asking for clarification on a couple of points, then stayed quiet for a moment or two after Stiles had finished. The set of her jaw and the sharpness of her scent told Peter she was feeling pensive, and more than a little provoked.

“I’m going to make a few calls,” she said, finally. Her voice was flinty, and there were threads of red starting to bleed into her irises, like licks of fire. “Stiles, you can assure Lydia and Jackson that I’m taking care of this. They have nothing to worry about; Isaac isn’t going anywhere without their explicit permission, given without coercion. Tell them I’ll be calling them later, too, to speak about this directly. In fact, no, never mind. I’ll call them now, before I do anything else.”

Stiles blinked, deflating back into his chair from the incensed story-mode that had him on the edge of his seat. “I— Thanks, Talia. I really appreciate it, so much, and I know Lydia and Jackson will too.” He paused, glancing at Peter for a moment, biting his lip. “And I’m sorry to drag this kind of crap to your door, especially when you’re in the middle of a family thing.”

“Stiles, this is my job.” In a swell of crimson, her eyes shifted completely, searing with Alpha power. “It’s my responsibility to protect the wolves in Beacon County, whether or not they’re Pack. And it’s my responsibility to defend my status and my territory. If Thom Whittemore thinks he can kidnap _children_ in my backyard, then he and I have a larger problem than a tantrum about how to educate pups and a Beta who slipped his leash. Thom’s the one who dragged this to my door, the second he sent his wolves here without my permission. Not you.”

 

* * *

 

“You!” Beth pointed at Stiles the moment they entered the kitchen, jabbing the air with one blush pink fingernail. From her seat at the kitchen table, she held up her cellphone. “Get your ass over here, Stilinski. You tricked me into this hell, and you’re getting me out, or so help me god.”

“I sent you the YouTube links for the walkthrough,” Stiles said, too innocent to be believed. Beth growled under her breath, threateningly lupine for a woman so perfectly human.

Peter wasn’t getting involved. He refused to admit that he’d hit his own wall, stuck and unable to progress farther, in the fiendish puzzle app Stiles was spreading around like chlamydia. And the walkthroughs were fucking bullshit.

“Those walkthroughs are _bullshit_.” Beth snapped her fingers, then pointed sharply at her phone. “You have to get me through this level, you hateful, _evil_ little monster.”

“Aw, Beth, how could I sleep at night, knowing I deprived you of the satisfaction of figuring it out yourself? Bren, buddy, what’s up?” Stiles swanned farther into the room, setting his bottle of wine on the cupboard next to where Brendan was leaning. They clapped each other on the shoulder, exchanging friendly greetings, and Brendan did the same thing to Peter when he got in range.

Marin was sitting at the kitchen table as well, at one end, perpendicular to Beth. Her head tilted, and she observed Stiles with that look of cool sphinx-like detachment she and her brother could disappear behind at a moment’s notice. They both probably practiced in the mirror every night, or maybe they’d taken a course— _Enigmatic Emissaries: How to Annoy Friends and Influence People._

“I will end you,” Beth muttered, but she was staring at her phone now, scowling and tapping the screen. “I swear, you little shit, I’ll destroy— Are you _kidding_ me?”

“I can’t be threatened,” Stiles said, grabbing a chair on the other side of the table, and pulling out one for Peter too. “But I can be bought. Information is power. Hey, you must be Marin. I’m Stiles.”

“It’s good to put a face to a name, Stiles,” Marin said, allowing a handshake. “And to the various other, less complimentary things I’ve heard you called recently.”

“All of it well-earned and completely deserved,” Peter said, enduring a light kick under the table for his input.

“Am I’m being ganged up on now? When all I’ve been trying to do is spread some lighthearted, casual entertainment?” Wrapping an arm around the back of Peter’s chair, Stiles turned in his seat. “At least Brendan still likes me. Right, man?”

“Right.” Brendan’s beard rasped audibly as he scratched his jaw, considering. “She stuck on level ninety-four? ‘Cause that was a killer, no doubt.”

Peter froze, with his benign, incurably good-natured brother-in-law just visible out of the corner of his eye. Level _ninety-four_.

Peter had been seriously considering hurling his phone against a wall for four days now, and he’d even been sneaking in a couple of attempts during class, in those rare moments when his students were working away on some task or activity without his direct involvement. All in an effort to somehow claw his way successfully through level forty-eight.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Beth shrieked, pitched sharply enough that both Brendan and Peter winced.

“Oh man, Bren is some kind of wizard, I swear.” Stiles was positively gleeful, rocking in his seat. “It’s _the circle is now complete_ , student becomes the master type scenario, too. Luckily the dude’s not a master of evil, _à la_ Vader, but he totally hooked me up with a couple tricks, helped me get some better times.”

“I’m divorcing this family,” Bethany said, throwing her phone onto the table with a dull, rubbery clatter.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the afternoon was mostly spent in the backyard, where the game of jungle had continued, along with tag, and an intense few of rounds of the Hale pups’ favourite _What Time Is It Mr Wolf?_ , with Peter taking on the titular role. Stiles had watched from the deck, at first, before he decided to get in on the action too.

It was incredibly satisfying to run Stiles down like prey, even if Peter couldn’t really afford to play favourites in the middle of a game, but it didn’t last long. Getting chased by Peter, all growls and fangs, was apparently a bit _too much fun_ for Stiles to deal with, in a yard full of giggling, shrieking kids, most of whom could smell his mood.

When Stiles tapped out, flushed and winded, the grin Peter sent him was knowing, and absolutely filthy. The exertion of running around with the pups wasn't the only thing putting that gorgeous rosy glow in Stiles' cheeks. They would definitely be revisiting that particular reaction later, in private.

Now they were all sitting down to eat, with the adults at the kitchen table, and all six of the pups seated around the smaller, brightly coloured table and chairs that Peter and Brendan had hauled down from the playroom. The pups had their plates of food, roast chicken already diced into easily eaten pieces. It had been hilarious to watch the shock on Talia and Brendan's faces when their own pups had tentatively requested some broccoli and carrots too, after taking one look at the meals Stiles had set down in front of the twins and Isaac. Getting any of the Hale pups to regularly eat their vegetables had been a chore since they’d grown out of baby food.

The Stilinskis didn't appear to have that problem, judging by their enthusiastic munching.

At the adults’ table, Talia was passing the serving dish of potatoes, when suddenly her head cocked, listening intently. A few short seconds later, Peter heard the grunts and shuffling that had drawn his sister's attention, and by the look on Brendan's face, he heard it too.

“Peter, join me,” Talia said, standing. She laid a hand on Brendan's shoulder. “Honey, you stay here.” Brendan nodded; they couldn’t leave the pups and humans alone in the house.

Beside him, Peter could hear Stiles’ heartbeat increase. He reached out and gave the man’s nape a gentle caress, running his thumb over the drumming of his pulse.

“Just some noise in the yard,” he explained, also for Bethany and Marin's benefit. “Be right back.” Getting to his feet, Peter leaned in close enough to murmur in Stiles' ear. “Calm, sweetheart, or you'll scare the pups.”

“I’m good.” Stiles caught his hand in a brief, firm squeeze. “Don't worry about me, babe. I’m totally cool.”

Peter followed Talia out of the kitchen, through the foyer. The noise had come from somewhere in the front yard, and it was much closer now. Two heartbeats, one strong and steady, the other rabbiting wildly, but both large enough to be either werewolf or human, not simply wildlife. Most animals gave the house a wide berth anyway, understandably wary of the scent of apex predator.

Peter's claws were out when they stepped out into the front porch, and he didn't retract them when he saw what was waiting for them in the driveway.

“Talia, dear,” Bryony said, straightening up. Her hair was a tangled, windswept nimbus, and she had blood dripping from her hands, smeared on her torn blouse, and spattered across her face. One of her pointed boots was pressed between the shoulder blades of the woman lying prone in the driveway. “I think you may have a pest problem.”

“I’m aware,” Talia said dryly. “Are you alright, Mom?”

“There was more than one of them,” Peter said, over their mother’s derisive scoff. He’d seen at least two people in the Lincoln, possibly more in the back, hidden behind the tinted windows.

“There were three, darling.” The woman on the ground let out a pained groan, which turned to weak whining when Bryony pressed her sharp heel in harder. “I left the other two in the woods. They were still breathing, last I checked, but I doubt they’ll be going anywhere for a while. This one seemed moderately less idiotic, so I brought her along.”

Flicking blood from her fingers, Bryony frowned down at the state of herself. “Neither of you seem particularly surprised that I found strange wolves skulking around in our woods.”

“That’s because we knew they were out there,” Talia said, marching down the porch steps. Peter was only a pace behind, though he circled around once they got closer, approaching the unknown wolf from the side. He didn’t recognize her, but he hadn’t really expected to. “Let her up, Mom. There was an incident, but it’s been dealt with.”

Bryony’s eyebrows arched, her doubt obvious, but she stepped off the whimpering wolf without further protest. The woman immediately curled up, rising partially onto her hands and knees, keeping her head bowed and her belly protected. Her hair, bleached blonde with dark roots, was coming loose from its short ponytail, matted with mud and blood, and her heavy-duty jacket and jeans were in far worse shape than Bryony’s more delicate outfit, gaping with multiple, blood-stained gashes.

“Look at me.” Talia’s voice was sonorous with the deep reverberations of Alpha. The blonde wolf shuddered violently as she tilted her face up, baring her neck and keeping her eyes fixed respectfully somewhere on Talia’s torso. “I’ve already spoken to your Alpha, and expressed my displeasure at this unprovoked trespass on my territory. You will go gather up your Packmates, and you will all leave Beacon County, now. If any of you are still on Hale land at sunup tomorrow, if you continue this harassment, if you touch a single hair on Isaac Martin-Whittemore’s head, I will consider it declaration of a feud, and any Whittemores in Hale territory without my permission will be treated as hostile wolves. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Alpha Hale,” the woman said, in a low voice, hoarse and trembling. Peter didn’t doubt that some of her fear was lingering from the work over their mother had provided, and Bryony's silent lurking at her back, in addition to the strength of Talia’s Alpha presence.

Then, quicker than a viper, Bryony had the woman by the hair, and was yanking her up onto her knees.

“When you’re speaking to Thomas,” Bryony said, with her other hand wrapped around the woman's throat. Fresh blood welled up around the tips of her claws, where they dug into flesh and tendon. Wisely, the woman only struggled for one panicked moment before going limp and submissive. “Tell him Bryony Hale will be sending him a bill. This blouse is my favourite Carolina Herrera, or it was, until you mutts bled all over it."

 

* * *

 

“Ruined,” Bryony said, plucking at the hem of her blouse as the three of them entered the mud room. They’d gone around to the back door, in an attempt to spare the pups from the sight of Nana Bea, looking as though she’d been brawling a mountain lion. “My dry cleaner is a gifted, darling girl, but this is too much. At least I left my jacket in the car.”

“I’ll get you something to change into,” Talia said distractedly, striding out of the room. “Brendan? It’s all been settled—”

“Those idiots are lucky I’m not sending them back in pieces.” Bryony clicked her tongue, wiggling a finger through a tear in the formerly white fabric. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about, pup?” Peter didn’t flinch, even as his mother looked up from her fussing, pinning him with a shrewd stare. Her question demanded an answer. “Thom Whittemore isn’t one for this sort of indiscretion, usually. And yet, here we are.” She swept an arm down, indicating the gory state of herself.

“Whittemore decided to air his dirty laundry in our backyard.” Peter shrugged, keeping his voice quiet enough that the pups probably wouldn’t be able to hear him. “He’s got an uncooperative Beta raising a pup in Hale territory, and apparently doesn’t like either of their attitudes. So, a little intimidation and kidnapping was apparently the order of the day. Talia took issue with his methods. The little ones are in the dark about all of this, and we’d like to keep it that way, please and thank you.”

“I see.” Bryony let herself be led out of the mud room, with Peter beside her but not actually touching, avoiding the blood. “I suppose discretion might save us some weeping and wailing. Alright. Tell your sister to leave the clothes outside the guest bath. I won’t be long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask, the “fiendish puzzle app” is totally fudged. Could be anything, so fill in your own blanks.


	26. Omegas & Lies of Omission

“Mom’s here,” Peter announced blandly, dropping into his chair with a sigh. Stiles blinked at him, uncertain. He had a hunch that there was more to that sentence, and he was going to ask, but then Peter’s hand found his thigh under the table. It wasn’t a teasing touch, like it’d been in the car. Just steady, soothing. “It’s settled, for now.”

“Nana’s here?” Laura piped up eagerly, stretching out of her seat to look at Peter. “Where is she?”

“Nana’s getting cleaned up,” Talia said, as she entered the kitchen. She pecked Derek on the head when she passed by, giving the kiddie table a quick, sweeping inspection.

“She fell in a mud puddle,” Peter added. Talia faked a cough behind her hand, clearly trying not to laugh. “It was very messy.”

“You’re going to pay for that later,” Beth murmured, smirking over the rim of her wineglass.

“Uncle Peter’s being silly.” Talia settled back at her place at the head of the table. “Nana Bea didn’t fall in a puddle. She had a long day, and wanted to get cleaned up before dinner. Just like you all washed your hands, didn’t you, pups?” There was a muttering of vague, quasi-agreement, and the kids were suddenly very interested in their food again, rather than the adults’ conversation.

It was only a few minutes later when Bryony made her entrance. Granted, Stiles had really only met the woman once, on Wolf Moon, but somehow he was absolutely sure that the long sleeved t-shirt and faded blue jeans, rolled up at the ankles to reveal bare feet and toenails painted dark red, were not her style. Her long black hair was wet, pulled back into a glossy braid trailing down her spine, and her face looked scrubbed clean of makeup.

 _Fell in a mud puddle_. Right.

“Nana!” Laura was up, sock feet sliding around the kiddie table as she scampered over to give her grandmother a hug. They were startlingly close to the same height for a grown woman and a ten year old girl, with Laura standing probably less than six inches shorter. Laura was a tall for her age, sure, but it was easy to forget that Bryony was barely over five feet, when her presence was so imposing.

“Hello, my darling.” Bryony stroked Laura’s hair and the nape of her neck, kissing the crown of her head. The scent marking was blatant, even to Stiles, but they were family. It wasn’t any more intense than the way Malia would cuddle up, with her face pressed into the crook of her Grandpa’s neck.

It was weird, though, thinking of Bryony being that _cuddly_. Stiles reminded himself that he didn’t really know the woman, even if she did make a strong, very particular sort of impression.

The other Hale kids trundled over for hugs too, affectionate but maybe not quite as wildly enthusiastic as Laura. Scott and Malia were close behind, dragging Isaac along as usual, and Stiles felt a small kick of apprehension in his gut. He didn’t trust Bryony, even if his kids seemed somewhat enamoured.

“We have quite a full house this evening,” Bryony said, bending to give the twins a shared hug when they held up their arms. “A veritable horde of Stilinskis. And this handsome young pup must be Isaac.”

Isaac was hanging back behind Derek, all wide blue eyes and cherubic, dirty blonde curls. When Stiles let him pick out his clothes that morning, he’d skipped over the bag his mom had packed for him, and chosen one of Scott’s shirts that Scott had been happy to share. It was a soft, long-sleeved polo, with thick yellow and black stripes like a bumblebee. Stiles really hoped the kid looked adorable to Bea, or even plainly uninteresting. Not like a potential target, or a snack.

Derek took Isaac’s hand, leaning close to whisper something that Stiles couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it was enough to coax the kid to take a step forward, and mumble out a quiet: “Hi.”

“Hello,” Bryony replied, looking Isaac over. The boy didn’t go in for a hug, and she didn’t offer one. “Interesting. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Isaac.”

“Hey pups,” Brendan said, turning around in his chair. “Let Nana come get some dinner. Sooner we eat, the sooner there’s dessert, y’know.”

The kids scrambled back to their seats easily enough, and Bryony strolled over to the table, slipping into the empty chair with clean place setting at the far end, directly opposite Talia. The position meant she had Marin on her left, next to Bethany and Brendan, and Stiles to her right, with Peter beside him.

“Hm, smells like the chicken was Talia’s turn to cook,” she said, reaching for a bowl of vegetables. “Too much sage. Marin, dear, I have a few books in the car that I’d like you to bring to Deucalion, if you wouldn’t mind. Stiles, you look as though you’ve been thoroughly mauled. Congratulations.”

“Where is your car, Mom?” Peter asked, while Stiles slapped a hand over his own neck, where the collar of his t-shirt had ridden down. Peter had sucked a fresh hickey there during some brief, unplanned making out in Stiles’ car, almost a week ago. Since Peter was an animal and Stiles bruised like a peach, it was still pretty dark.

It was ridiculous, but he could feel a faint wash of heat creeping up his face, and he hoped to god he wasn’t turning tomato red. Half the table could smell Peter all over him, anyway.

“When I noticed our uninvited guests, I parked just inside the Preserve,” Bryony said. “The keys are waiting on the table in the foyer, for whichever of you goes to fetch it. Brendan, potatoes, if you please.”

 

* * *

 

After dessert, the kids moved their party down to the rec room in the Hales’ basement, while the adults shuffled over into the living room for coffee. Stiles ended up sharing a plushly upholstered loveseat with Peter, covertly flipping Beth off when she waggled her eyebrows at the pair of them.

Yeah, he and Peter were basically pressed together from shoulders to knees, and yeah, maybe it was _slightly_ closer than necessary, but they were two grown men, and it wasn’t a big couch. And when Stiles slouched a little, he fit like a glove under the arm Peter had slung across the back of the loveseat. It was comfortable.

Anyway, Beth and Marin had been holding hands pretty much since they sat down, fingers twined together and resting on Marin’s thigh. That was _way_ more schmaltzy.

They’d already chatted briefly about the Whittemore situation, bringing Beth and Marin up to speed with the basics, now that they’re weren’t any little ears around. Beth had gone from surprised to fuming, _furious_ but contained, in the blink of an eye. Marin’s reaction had been weirder— there was a sort of clinical curiosity in every keen flicker of her eyes. Anytime Stiles had something to add to the discussion, having that attention focused on him felt a little like being a bug in a jar.

“I’ll bring this to Deucalion,” Marin said eventually, which was actually the first thing she’d said since they started talking about it. Up to this point, it’d been a lot of intent, vaguely unsettling listening. “Trespassing in the Preserve, acting in Hale territory without seeking your approval, Talia… I can’t say whether or not he’ll take any actions, but as a Hale ally and a local Alpha, he’ll want to know the Whittemores made these sorts of moves.”

 _Deucalion_ wasn’t a name that Stiles knew, and this was the second time tonight it had been mentioned. Stiles was curious, but decided he’d rather ask Peter later, instead of possibly stepping on toes during what sounded like a very serious, Pack-related discussion.

“I’ll speak to Alan tonight,” Talia said, from her seat in one of the room’s large, overstuffed armchairs. “And then I’ll have a few phone calls to make tomorrow, including to Deuc.”

“You know what?” Letting go of Marin’s hand, Bethany reached into the pocket of her cardigan, fishing out her phone. “I might have a few calls I can make, too, and some trees I can shake right now. Stiles, what did you say Isaac’s dad’s name was?”

“It’s Jackson.” Stiles wasn’t expecting to be addressed, especially since Beth wasn’t looking at him, tapping something into her phone instead. “Jackson Martin-Whittemore, but it’s just _Jackson Whittemore_ professionally. Why?”

“What’s he like?” Beth asked, still not lifting her head. “You’ve known him a while?”

“Uh, yeah. Twelve, almost thirteen years?” Stiles shot Peter a questioning glance, but all he got was an uncertain shrug in response. Whatever Beth was doing, Peter didn’t seem to know much more about it than Stiles did. “Since we were fourteen. That’s when his folks moved to Beacon Hills.”

Bethany hummed, reading something on her phone, eyes darting. “Is he a good guy?”

Stiles couldn’t help it; the question made him laugh, sharp and dry. That reaction was enough to drag Bethany’s attention from whatever had her thumbs flying over her screen, and she finally made eye contact again. There was a hard, penetrating quality in the weight of her gaze, more severe than Stiles’ had ever seen her. It made her look so much like her mother, goosebumps washed over him, making him shiver.

“Is he a good guy, Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, and when the word cracked, he cleared his throat and started again. “I mean, yeah, he’s a good guy. He’s…” God damn it, this was going to be terrible, but Beth sounded like she was looking for a genuine response. Stiles took a moment, dredging up some significant sincerity.

“Okay,” he said, after three seconds that felt like thirty years. “So, Jackson’s one of the most stubborn, egotistical, disgustingly charming bastards I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing. But if he decides he likes you? That’s _it_. You’re stuck with this guy, who’ll always have your back no matter how bad things get, even if he freaking whines about it the entire time. He’s a great dad, and he’s married to my best friend. He’s one of my kids’ emergency contacts, that’s how much I trust him. The dude might be a jerk, but… crap. He’s my brother.”

Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Hm. Sounds like another brother I know. My condolences.”

“Thanks for that,” Peter said, and gave Stiles a pinch on the upper arm. “For the record, I’m much more charming than Jackson.”

“For the sake of the bro code and your ego, I should disagree,” Stiles said, reaching up to tweak Peter’s chin in retaliation, and barely avoided getting his fingers caught in teasing, snapping teeth. “But you’d hear the lie. Hey, Beth, what’s with the quiz? Making me say this much nice stuff about Jackson’s gonna make me break out in hives, seriously.”

“I’m making a few inquiries,” she said, returning to her phone when it buzzed in her hand. “Your friend’s a lawyer, working for a Pack controlled firm. If things go south, further south than they are now, it might put him in a tough spot. He’s young, and he’s green, but everything I’m hearing so far—” She raised her phone slightly, but didn’t stop typing. “Says he’s smart and vicious, with potential to be an absolute beast in court once he gets a few more cases under his belt. So, I’m putting out feelers, nothing too serious, and only people I trust to keep this quiet. You can tell him, if he wants help exploring some new opportunities, he should give me a call. Give him my personal number, and I’ll give you a business card, too. Remind me.”

“What?” Stiles straightened up, leaning forward. “Did you— Are you _job hunting_ for Jackson? Right now?”

“I’m putting out feelers,” Beth repeated, setting her phone down on her thigh, and grabbing her coffee off a nearby side table. “I’m not the job fairy; no promises, no guarantees, and if he doesn’t want the help, that’s no problem. I’m just putting the offer on the table.” She shook her head at Stiles’ gawking, as if it was no big deal. “If the Whittemores get too pissed off, you can bet they’ll try to blacklist the poor kid, and his career’s too young to weather that well. I’m not going to let your brother get backed into a corner if I can help it. Now please close your mouth, cutie, before Peter gets some ideas not fit for present company.”

“Too late,” Peter said, basically _purring_ , and dragged Stiles back against his side. The manhandling made Stiles grunt, and elbow Peter in the stomach, but really, he didn’t try that hard to wiggle away. There weren’t any wandering hands; everything was still kosher.

He was still too stunned to really process the turn the conversation had just taken. These goddamn Hales had a gift for coming out of left field with staggeringly good news, making him feel like he’d been suckerpunched in the best way.

“This is all riveting, really,” Bryony said, without looking away from the flames crackling behind the grate of the fireplace. She hadn’t taken a seat since they’d moved into the living room, just gravitated over after Talia had put a log on the coals, apparently content to stand while she sipped her coffee. “But now that the pups are suitably distracted, I have to say, I find this little bit of history repeating very interesting. And dear Stiles in the middle of it, again.”

“Mom,” Talia said, sounding weary and warning at the same time. She had her elbow braced on the arm of her chair, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. “This isn’t the time.”

“It’s hardly a dirty little secret, is it?” Bryony set her coffee cup on the mantel, turning to Talia. The light of the fire limned her profile in reddish gold and shuddering shadows. “I can’t believe the boy hasn’t been told yet. Or had some suspicions, and put the pieces together himself. You are a clever, cynical little thing, aren’t you, Stiles?”

“I— What?” Stiles shook his head, glancing between Bryony’s arch stare, and the rest of the room. Talia was watching him, unreadable, and so was Marin. Beth was levelling her mother with a pinched-lip glare. Peter was looking at Bryony as well, carefully blank but wary.

Fuck, Stiles wished Brendan hadn’t already gone to get Bea’s car. If he had the dude’s frank reaction to use as a gauge, then at least he might be able to get some sort of bead on what the hell was going on.

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Seriously, _what_? Am I ‘the boy’ in this? Told me what?”

“For the love of god, Mother,” Bethany said, whip-sharp. “Could you be more melodramatic? Honestly.”

“Told me what?” Stiles asked again, more demand than question this time. He turned to Peter, and gave him a smack on the chest with the back of his hand.

“I have no idea,” Peter said, still staring at his mother. He didn’t sound remotely pleased about his lack of knowledge, and his hand tightened where it was resting on the ball of Stiles’ shoulder.

“You must have some idea by now, pup,” Bryony said. “A suspicion, at least. I didn’t raise any stupid children. Obviously, this isn’t the first time some other Pack has tried to claim a pup from Hale territory, and not the first time Talia has gotten herself more involved in the mess than strictly necessary.”

“Oh, for _fucksake_.” There was a loud, wooden crack as Talia’s fist impacted the arm of her chair. Judging by the slightly crooked look of it afterward, the frame might have broken beneath the upholstery. “You couldn’t possibly leave well enough alone, could you? I said, _this isn’t the time_.”

“Lia.” Stiles felt oddly numb about the realisation. He could hear his own heartbeat like a drum in his ears, thumping too loud and unsteady, so surely the shifters in the room could hear it too. “You’re talking about Malia. The Skalas. I didn’t—”

Peter’s free hand came up, and laid against the base of Stiles’ throat, fingers and thumb spanning across the juts of his collarbones. It wasn’t a grip, or a choke; Peter’s hand was simply a warm, steady weight, pressing flat. Stiles could feel the rapid rise and fall of his pulse beating against Peter’s palm.

“Breathe,” Peter murmured, and that was a very good idea, considering the darkness creeping in on the edges of Stiles’ vision. He took a breath, then another, long and deep.

“When?” He honed in on Talia, because Bryony’s cool, predatory appraisal was more than he wanted to deal with at the moment. “When was it? Why don’t I know about this?”

“It was five years ago.” Thankfully, Talia didn’t try to feed him any of that _this isn’t the time_ bullshit. Stiles really didn’t know what he would’ve done if she’d tried to jerk his chain, instead of answering him like this, forthright and calm. “The summer after your pups were born. Alpha Skala approached the Hale Pack, and made a formal demand for Malia. I refused.”

Stiles needed— he needed to move. He needed to walk. Shrugging Peter off, he all but leapt to his feet, ignoring Beth’s short, surprised gasp. His hands were sliding together, knuckles rubbing rhythmically against his palm, as he paced over to the front window, giving Bryony a wide berth.

“Okay. Formal demand. Okay.” Plucking at the Hales’ curtains, Stiles noticed Brendan climbing out of what must have been Bea’s car, now parked neatly behind his own Kia. “So, you didn’t think this was maybe worth mentioning to me? Malia’s _father_? Why is this is the first time I’m hearing about this?”

“I already knew your father,” Talia said, sounding too calm. Placating. “When the situation with the Skalas started, I went to see him. And John… He was worried you had too much on your plate already. He asked me if the issue could be resolved without involving you and the pups, and offered his own resources to help, in any way possible. I assured him I’d do my best.”

“You’re saying my dad knew.” Stiles was vaguely aware of the minor commotion when Brendan entered the room, but he didn’t bother looking over. It was after seven now, and the warmer hues of sunset had leeched away, leaving the creeping murk of the Preserve after dusk. “He never…”

His dad had never said anything. Not one word. The fucking Skalas tried to take— to _claim_ Stiles’ baby girl, and his dad had kept it to himself for five years.

“You never found it at all strange,” Bryony said. “That, as far as you knew, your former Pack utterly ignored you raising a werewolf pup, Skala-blooded, as an Omega? Have I been giving you too much credit?”

“Mom. _Stop_.” Talia’s voice was barely recognizable, no louder than before, but so much deeper, and reverberating with something Stiles had only heard a handful of times in his life. The rumble of Alpha made the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up, and his gut clenched with a momentary, hunted sort of panic.

“Stiles,” Peter began to say, but then Bikini Kill started blaring from the pocket of Stiles’ pants.

“Shit—” Fumbling with clumsy fingers, Stiles managed to fish the phone out, without dropping it once. “That’s Lydia. I’ve got to— Lyds, what’s up? What’s wrong?”

“Is Isaac alright?” Lydia’s voice was a whisper, urgent and brusque. “Is he with you?”

“Yeah, he’s here, he’s fine.” Stiles glanced back at the room; every set of eyes was pinned on him, except Bryony, who’d gone back to watching the fire. The shifters would be able to hear both sides of the conversation, clear as day. “We’re still at the Hales. He’s in the rec room, watching a movie. What happened?”

“Stiles,” Lydia hissed furiously. Talia stood up, but didn’t approach. “What the _hell_ did you do?”

“What?” Peter got to his feet too, and Stiles held up a hand, motioning everybody to keep the hell back for a minute. He felt crowded enough already. “I didn’t— I’ve been here all afternoon. What’s wrong?”

“There are four Whittemore Betas in my living room.” Lydia’s tone didn’t soften, still hard as nails. “You know, the ones who’ve been sitting in a car outside my house all day long? Well, about fifteen minutes ago, they decided to come in. And they weren’t exactly taking no for an answer.”

Cold washed over Stiles, like a bucket of icy water to the face. “Are you okay? Where’s Jackson? What are they doing?”

“They’re just waiting. Jackson’s downstairs, trying to talk to Alpha Whittemore on Skype. Whatever happened, Thom isn’t happy.” Lydia made a frustrated noise, somewhere between a snarl and a sob, but Stiles knew her cheeks would be bone dry, not a tear in sight. “I’m in the bedroom, _getting a bag together_. They’re taking Jackson to Sacramento.”

“Like hell they are,” Stiles said. Sudden movement caught his eye; Peter was high-tailing it out of the room like his ass was on fire. “Why are they— Lydia, call my dad, his direct line at the station. He’s on duty tonight, and he’ll have a patrol there in like, five minutes. Fuck it, call 911, whatever, just—”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Lydia snapped. “There isn’t anything the police can do. No one’s breaking any laws. My husband’s Alpha ordered him back to Sacramento, tonight. You think Jackson has a _choice_?”

“Of course he does!” Stiles’ free hand was flailing, gesticulating wildly, because this? This was absolute bullshit of the highest order. “We’re not letting those assholes take Isaac, so we’re certainly not letting them take Jax, for the love of _god_ —”

He looked to Talia, expectant, but didn’t find any of the righteous anger or glowing red eyes he’d expected. She looked… apologetic?

“I called to tell you I’m going too,” Lydia said, while Stiles tried to process what he was seeing. What he was hearing. “I can’t— Thom isn’t asking for me, but I won’t let Jackson go down there on his own. I need you to keep Isaac. We won’t be— I don’t think we’ll be longer than a few days.”

“This is insane!” It was only the thought of the kids downstairs that kept Stiles from screaming. “I can’t be the only person who thinks this is fucking crazy talk. Talia, c’mon, you said this was settled, right?”

“This is different,” Talia said quietly, clasping her hands in front of herself. “Stiles, the situation with Isaac was a special case, because of the way Thom handled things. I can’t dictate how Alpha Whittemore deals with his Betas, especially not in his own territory. It isn’t my place. Your friend can choose to obey or defy his Alpha, to go or not, but unless I’m asked to intercede directly, my hands are tied. They could…” The gentle, neutral expression that had overtaken Talia’s face flickered into a frown, there and gone again so quickly, Stiles might have thought he imagined it, if he hadn’t been watching her so intently.

“There isn’t anything Alpha Hale can do, either,” Lydia was saying in his ear, but Stiles shushed her when it looked like Talia had something else to add. Something to finish that dangling _they could_.

“If Jackson and Lydia decide they are no longer bound to their Alpha,” Talia said. Her words sounded careful, but practiced. Diplomatic, and very official. “The Hale Pack will offer formal protection for them and their family. They’re welcome to stay in Hale territory, as Omegas or otherwise. Stiles, may I speak to Lydia?”

“Hang on, there might be something, Lyds,” Stiles said into the phone. “Talia wants to talk to you, okay?”

Lydia agreed, clearly surprised, and Stiles passed his cell over. There was a fine tremor in his hands, and he clenched them quickly, bringing them down to his sides.

“Lydia,” Talia said. “Hello. No, there’s nothing for you to apologise for. If I’d thought this was going to escalate like this, I would have taken steps. I have an offer to extend, before you and your husband make any decisions.”

“Where’s Peter?” Stiles asked the rest of the room, keeping his voice low. If something else was going pear-shaped right now, he really was going to scream.

“He’s down with the pups.” Brendan nodded out toward the hall. “Isaac was on his way up. Sounded like he heard his mom’s ringtone, wanted to talk to her. Peter’s probably distracting him.”

“Shit.” There wasn’t any audible wailing from downstairs, which was a good sign, but Stiles didn’t know how much of this crap the kids might have overheard.

“Go check on them, Stiles,” Beth said, then motioned toward Talia. “You already know the gist; this is just a lot of protocol now. I’ll talk to your friend once Talia’s done, tell her her husband’s already got some professional interest piqued elsewhere, if they’re worried about that.”

“I— Yeah.” He wouldn’t be long. He just needed to see the kids. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

 

* * *

 

Peter, as it turned out, was in the middle of a puppy pile of bean bag chairs, body pillows, and giggling children. They were all snuggled in a heap on the floor, with Peter quoting along with Mike and Sulley, even doing the voices, as the tail end of _Monsters, Inc._ played on the big flat screen.

“Dad!” Malia shouted, stretching out little grasping hands from her flop half on top of Laura. “Cuddles!”

Stiles forced the most authentic smile he could muster, which wasn’t as difficult as it could have been. No matter how much other shit was piling up, the scene in front of him was immensely cute, making his stomach flip.

“I just popped down for a sec, kiddos.” Stiles caught Peter’s eye, and tried to silently communicate the lack of immediate emergency. He thought he might have been successful when Peter nodded at him, with Isaac curled up like a little bean against his chest, and Peter’s big hand cupping the nape of the boy’s neck.

“Bathroom break after the movie,” Stiles said. “Then we’re gonna head home. It’s just about bedtime for Team Stilinski.” There was less grumbling than Stiles had anticipated. Scotty was drooping already, sandwiched between Hales with his head pillowed on Derek’s tummy. Lia was probably still processing The Gimmes as a concept, so odds were good she’d be extra diligent about her manners for a couple of days. And Isaac… Isaac looked peaceful enough, not overtly upset, but he seemed very small. Subdued.

Damn it, the kid knew something was going on.

“I’ve got this covered,” Peter said, in his own voice, steady and sure. “Now, if you don’t want me to pause, either hush or scram. You’re making us miss the end.”

 

* * *

 

“Did you really not know?” They were bundling kids into coats, so the abrupt question didn’t come with any details or context, but Peter caught on immediately.

“No,” he said, kneeling in the Hales’ foyer, helping Isaac with his sneakers. “I really didn’t know. Summer, five years ago, I was in Canada. Two months in Vancouver, info gathering on integration strategies before Fáelán opened. Evidently no one saw fit to keep me in the loop about whatever happened, once I got back in town.” Straightening Isaac’s jacket with a few easy tugs, Peter glanced up to meet Stiles’ eyes. “It must have been kept very quiet. I don’t remember hearing anything, not even gossip.”

“Alright.” Stiles was feeling more than a little raw, definitely guarded, but the immediate lack of Malia squealing _fib_ at the top of her lungs allowed him to unclench. His daughter wasn’t a perfect polygraph, and it was very likely that Peter knew how to lie without giving himself away, but it was something.

Peter wasn’t the one he was angry with, anyway. Peter wasn’t the reason he had this itch under his skin.

They’d already said their goodbyes for the night, and the Hale house felt ominously empty around them, hollowed out by the stress of the evening. Bethany and Marin had left about ten minutes ago, and Brendan was downstairs, wrangling his kids for their own approaching bedtime. Stiles hadn’t seen Bea leave, but her car was gone. Talia was closed up in her office, making and taking calls; she’d retreated in there after both her cell and the Hale landline had started ringing.

Stiles finished fixing Scott’s hood, then offered Peter a hand up.

“Come on, Cujo. Let’s make like a tree.”

“And get outta here,” the twins chorused brightly, in perfect unison. Stiles laughed all the way to the car, with Isaac hoisted on his hip, and Peter’s hand resting on the small of his back.

 

* * *

 

They ended up making a detour on the drive back to Casa Stilinski. Lydia and Jackson wanted their son, and luckily, Isaac wanted his Mom and Dad more than he wanted another night of sleepover with the peanuts. Today, at least.

Peter stayed in the car with Malia and Scott while Stiles walked Isaac up to the Martin-Whittemore’s front step, where Lydia and Jackson were already standing, waiting. There was no way the twins missed Isaac throwing himself at his Mom, or how Jackson curled around them both, with the golden glow of his eyes visible even in the porch light. Hopefully, with the car windows rolled up, Malia couldn’t hear any crying over the noise of the radio.

Stiles hung back, letting the family do their thing. Jackson wasn’t going anywhere, neither was Lydia, and he was almost sick with relief. But this wasn’t a clear cut, totally happy outcome, and Stiles was trying really hard to be cognisant of that. It wasn’t every day a shifter walked away from their Pack. Even post-Anagnorisis, Omegahood was usually a punishment, not a choice.

This fallout had been brewing for a while, sure, but to have it finally boil over was a pretty enormous deal.

Jackson was going to lose his job, basically guaranteed. The firm wasn’t going to fire him outright and risk a lawsuit, but things would be put in motion. Eventually, they’d make it too difficult for him to stay.

Stiles wasn’t going to ask what this meant between them and Jackson’s parents. Later, if they wanted to tell him, he’d listen. But he wasn’t going to ask.

He was actually about to quietly slip back to his car, leaving the three of them to it, when suddenly he was being grabbed by the shoulder, too quickly to react, and dragged into a hard hug.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he swore, thankfully mostly muffled against the soft knit of Jackson’s sweater. Jackson’s arms were like iron bands, and both of his hands clenched the back of Stiles’ coat. He had his face pressed against the crook of Stiles’ neck, whuffling out big, unsteady breaths. “Whoa, okay. Easy, bro. Some of us have fragile human bones.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Jackson growled, squeezing him harder. Stiles was pretty sure he heard his ribs creak. “Just, shut up.”

“Not a chance.” Full-on hugging Jackson wasn’t _that_ weird. They touched a lot, anyway— frequent shoulder bumps and back pats, sprawling closer than human-normal when they were playing video games or watching TV, and Jackson’s subtle scent marking that Stiles never mentioned. Maybe they weren’t usually _huggy_ , but fuck it, if this was what they were doing, Stiles was all in. He slung his arms around Jackson’s shoulders, giving as good as he got. “You want quiet, you picked the wrong packmates, man. Stilinskis are a prodigiously loquacious breed.”

“Fuck off,” Jackson laughed, and Lydia didn’t even get on his ass about the cursing in front of Isaac. She was too busy peppering probably a thousand kisses across the kid’s face, both of them shiny with tears. “God, I never thought I’d be this happy that you’re getting laid.”

“What?” Pulling back until he could look Jackson in the face, Stiles shook his head. “Dude, that’s not— Talia would’ve done the same thing, even if Peter and I weren’t— if we weren’t _me and Peter_.”

Having Jackson’s _are you freaking serious_ moue turned on him was definitely less jarring than the hug. The undiluted derision contained in that expression was way too familiar, sort of like slipping on a comfortable pair of shoes.

“Whatever,” Jackson said, with an amused little scoff. He gave Stiles one last firm pat on the back before untethering, straightening his sweater. “Tell him thanks. Hey, Lydia, gimme my kid. C’mere buddy.” Isaac was passed over, sniffly and clinging like a monkey. “Daddy wants kisses too.”

Stiles absolutely anticipated the hug from Lydia, but the tight lump in his throat and burning in his eyes was more emotional than he’d planned on getting. He pressed his nose against the silky softness and sweet scent of her hair, breathing deep.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment, while Stiles tried not to listen to whatever sappy shit Jackson was murmuring to Isaac. Finally, Lydia loosened the tight grip she had around his ribs, which had been nearly as bone-crushing as her shifter husband.

“I love you,” she said simply, a little watery, cupping his face in her hands. The lump in Stiles’ throat got even larger, but he managed to swallow it down enough to respond.

“Love you, too, Lyds.” Stiles swallowed again, glancing over at Jackson and Isaac. Father and son’s foreheads were touching, and they were grinning at each other, all toothy and ridiculous. “I love you guys. Team Stilinski’s a pretty exclusive club, y’know. And, yeah, nobody messes with this pack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of behind the scenes that we would have gotten if this was some other POV besides Stiles’ (like Talia’s): it’s pretty obvious to those in the know about Pack politics that Thom Whittemore didn’t make a simple faux pas with this specific move for Isaac. This was planned, to put Talia in an awkward position, and Thom decided to use a troublesome Beta he didn’t overly mind cutting loose as the catalyst. Was there genuine Whittemore interest in getting Isaac more Pack-oriented? Absolutely, yes, but if that didn’t work out (which was likely), Thom had a plan to make some gains through the inevitable loss of the Martin-Whittemores. He was testing boundaries and reactions-- challenging Talia, but not blatantly. Nothing Thom couldn’t try to explain away as a momentary overreaction, if called to the carpet by other Alphas about it.
> 
> Talia is very progressive, which isn’t popular with everybody. And to some, her forward-thinking diplomacy and ‘softer touch’ approach to many shifter traditions make her appear weak. This is not the first time someone has tried to rattle her cage, and it won’t be the last. But Talia can and does hold her own, no worries.
> 
> Did Thom initially plan for things to go this far, this fast? No, probably not. But then Hurricane Bea beat the supreme shit out of his Betas, which was on the far extreme end of acceptable responses to a non-violent trespass, and he took the opportunity to make a bigger issue of things. And throw Jackson under the bus, since Jackson has been a minor annoyance for quite some time.
> 
> Is Thom going to be a major plot point as we move forward? Nah, not at all. Mostly this was just an excuse to show some inter-Pack jostling, and work in a tiny bit more Skala background, with the Malia issue. This is a big change for our Martin-Whittemores, however.
> 
> I could have worked out a way to include all this info in the chapter, sure, but it was already long and far too jam-packed. I’d honestly like to move on, so here we go. Next up: a bunch of Steter, some Stiles & John conversation, then time skip again.


	27. Cereal Killin' Me With All These Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is like, ¾ Steter, ¼ Stiles & John hashing shit out.

“Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess.” Stiles dropped his head into his hands, elbows braced on his thighs. “I can’t. God, that _sucked_.”

“It’s been a busy day,” Peter said, and didn’t complain when Stiles sagged heavily against him. They were sitting side by side on the steps of the Stilinskis’ back porch, relatively protected from nosy neighbours by the height of the reinforced privacy fence. “It still wasn’t the most dramatic Hale Sunday dinner I’ve ever attended. No screaming matches, not that much blood. No one lost a limb.”

“That’s... weirdly reassuring.” Stiles dragged his hands back through his hair, straightening up with a pained groan. He snuggled in even tighter when Peter’s arm wrapped around his back.

Putting the kids to bed had been a circus act. They’d seen and heard enough tension with the Martin-Whittemores to put them on edge, even if they didn’t really understand what had happened. Stiles had tried to explain that Uncle Jackson’s had a tough day with his Pack; the twins already understood that sometimes people had tough days at work or school. Days that made them tired, and maybe even a little cranky. So, Uncle Jackson had a tough day, and wanted to have cuddles with Isaac and Aunt Lydia to make him feel better.

The peanuts hadn’t really bought that explanation, but Stiles was too drained to think of anything better. Thank god his kids took some degree of mercy on him. They didn’t push for more details, which was great, but they took ages to settle down after they crawled into their beds.

Peter had offered to stick around for a little while, and having another pair of hands to help with the bedtime routine had been amazing. Still, the kids were restless after baths and toothbrushing, and didn’t even simmer down that much after storytime with Dad and Uncle Peter. They finally conked out sometime after ten, curled up together in Malia’s bed, but Stiles was waiting for one of them to wake up again. Peter was keeping an ear on them, with stronger, better tuned senses than Malia, while he and Stiles slipped outside to speak privately.

Stiles’ dad was working all night; the house was dim and quiet. It was a relief, not only because spending a few minutes alone with Peter was more soothing than it had any right to be, but also because Stiles wasn’t ready to face his dad yet.

His dad, who’d gone behind his back, and never once mentioned that the Skalas had tried to take Malia.

Nope, no way, Stiles couldn’t deal with that shit right now. One emotional bombshell at a time.

“Hey, Peter?” Beside him, Peter hummed, slowly rubbing his hand along Stiles’ upper arm. Stiles gnawed on his lip for a second, considering. “I want to say something, and fair warning, it might just be all the crap that happened today getting under my skin. I might just be being a dick.”

“Okay,” Peter said, and brushed a kiss against Stiles’ forehead. “Whatever you want to say, baby, you should. Better than letting it fester. After the day we just had, I’d say some dickishness is understandable.”

“Yeah, some dickishness,” Stiles said. “Maybe not this. It’s about Talia.” Stiles paused, waiting for some kind of reaction, like questions, or a preemptive defense. They might not always see eye to eye, but Talia was still the dude’s sister. Peter simply hummed again, sounding perfectly patient.

 _Better than letting it fester_.

“It’s horrible to even think this,” Stiles said eventually. “Because honestly, what she did basically saved Jackson’s ass from some kind of serious wolfy discipline, on top of all the other pressure. I mean, a couple of days of tender mercies in Sacramento wasn’t going to be a cakewalk, right?”

“I imagine Jackson would’ve come out of it worse for wear,” Peter said lightly. “And more amenable to his Alpha’s orders, whether he liked it or not. Or he would’ve ended up tossed out on his ass, an Omega, but in a much more precarious position than his current straits.”

“That’s what I figured.” Stiles shivered, only partly from the chill of the night air. Peter made a good space heater. “And I’m grateful, so fucking grateful, that things didn’t go that way. But there’s this part of me that’s sort of pissed off? I guess? I’m mad… I’m mad about the politics. That Talia would step in for Isaac, but only because of territory shit, not because the Whittemores think Isaac’s better off cloistered in some shifter school. Okay, on Wolf Moon, if the Whittemores had just kept Isaac, not let him go home, would she have done anything?”

“Probably not,” Peter said. “Unless Jackson or Lydia made a formal request for help. Even then, the chances of her agreeing to get involved, of challenging another Alpha over that kind of internal Pack squabbling, wouldn’t be good. No matter how ridiculously antiquated and speciest Whittemore’s views might be, he’s still a respected Alpha, with a healthy number of friends. He’s got no reputation for brutality that I’ve ever heard, so his treatment of Betas wouldn’t be in question. And he’s traditional, which wins him points with a few of the older, more powerful Packs. Politically, the Whittemores aren’t as influential as the Hales, but I still I have my doubts that Talia would’ve risked throwing her weight behind something like this. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but she has other priorities.”

Stiles was trying to see all sides. He was trying very hard to remember that Talia had much more to worry about than one family, who weren’t even her own Pack.

But that one family was part of _his_ family. He couldn’t be impartial or logical about this.

“I thought—” The words caught behind his teeth, stymied until he forced them out. He felt so painfully naive, it made his stomach roil. “I had this picture in my head, of _Talia Hale_. Progressive, compelling, _inspiring_ Talia freaking Hale. I know, fuck, I’m whining like a kid who just found out about the S-A-N-T-A thing, and it’s not like she did nothing. She actually helped, a lot.” He’d thought he’d gotten over this unhealthy deifying bullshit back in high school, but apparently not. “I’m so stupid. Putting people on pedestals isn’t fair to anybody; you’d think I’d know better by now.”

“Stiles.” Peter reached out, curling his fingers around the twisted mess of Stiles’ wringing hands, and prying them gently apart. He slipped his own warm, dry hand in between Stiles’ clammy palms, without complaint.

“My sister Talia,” he said. “Isn’t a terrible Alpha. And you’re not wrong: she is progressive. She can be compelling, even inspiring. She’s eloquent, and canny, and she has good instincts, a lot of the time. But she’s certainly not infallible, and her priority has always been werewolf-human relations. Trying to police how other Packs conduct their business internally is a very dangerous game, and doesn’t win you many friends. Getting involved in disputes about pups is especially risky, for a number of reasons.”

Peter slowly raised his hand, bringing both of Stiles’ along for the ride, and kissed Stiles’ chapped knuckles. “But, sometimes doing the right thing doesn’t make you popular. It’s still the right thing.”

“Oh god.” Stiles choked out a weak laugh, tucking his face against Peter’s collar. “You sound so much like a kindergarten teacher right now. That should not be hot, you freak.” An unpleasant thought made his amusement fade almost immediately. “This isn’t the part where you tell me I shouldn’t be mad at my dad, ‘cause he thought he was protecting me with this enormous, five year long lie of omission, is it?”

“What? Hell no.” The noise Peter made was half scoff, half growl. “I wouldn’t piss on my father if he was on fire, so I won’t pretend to understand how you and John operate. Handle this however you want.” Well, that wasn’t what Stiles had expected, on a number of levels. He’d never heard Peter mention his father before, and the straightforward, casual hatred was surprisingly. Peter got annoyed with his family, sometimes utterly exasperated, but there was always an undercurrent of genuine affection buried under all those layers of snark, if you looked for it. Not now, though.

“Okay, so there’s definitely a story there, but I think you might bite me if I poke at it. And not in the fun way.”

“What an uncharacteristic amount of self-preservation,” Peter said. “Considering your usual style. It’s not an exciting story, sweetheart. Suffice it to say I learned a great deal about trust from dear old dad. At least my mother has always done me the decency of stabbing me in the front, not the back. But hey, if you’re really curious, ask me about it the next time I’m drunk off my ass.”

Peter didn’t get drunk. Anytime they went out, whether to a restaurant or bar, or even over to Talia’s place, he only drank regular liquor. Nothing wolfsbane infused. He’d gone so far as to politely refuse the very expensive shifter IPA Jackson bought him the first time the four of them had gone for beers together. Hell, none of the booze Peter kept in his own apartment would get him more than briefly, faintly buzzed, and only if he drank a bathtub full of it.

Contrary to popular belief, Stiles could take a hint. He’d drop it. Peter’s dad was verboten. Off limits. _He Who Shall Not Be Named_.

Well, he’d drop it, but he wouldn’t forget it. He’d try to get a read on the situation from Bethany, maybe. Eventually. And he’d tread very carefully. To be fair, if Peter had really wanted him to keep his nose completely out of it, the dude wouldn’t have mentioned anything at all.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, more comfortable than Stiles thought possible, considering how unsettled he still felt in his own skin from the thing with Talia and the Whittemores. The unshakable anchor of Peter’s presence pressed against him, sturdy and cozy warm, was enough to keep his squirming to a minimum.

“Y’know, I think you’d be a great Alpha,” Stiles said, the instant the thought took shape. He didn’t spare two seconds of consideration before he just blurted it out.

When Peter went stiff as a freaking board, so tense he literally _stopped breathing_ , Stiles froze too. Oh fuck, now he’d put his foot in it, somehow. His brain-to-mouth filter was permanently on the fritz, and he was accustomed to the fallout of that, but he really wasn’t mentally or emotionally equipped to deal with another disaster at the moment. Especially not another wolfy one.

“Shit.” He resisted the urge to sigh, powering through some backpedaling instead. “Sorry, that was weird. That was probably a weird thing to say. I didn’t mean— No insult to Talia intended, okay? Let’s just forget I said anything—”

The world tipped dizzyingly, and Stiles’ breath was knocked out of his lungs as his back hit the wood of the deck. He managed not to crack his skull by virtue of the broad hand cupping the back of his head, cushioning him from a concussion.

It all happened in the blink of an eye; one moment, Stiles was sitting, the next he was splayed out, pinned down, with Peter looming over him. They were plastered together from knees to chest, and holy hell, Stiles’ dick got with the program a lot quicker than his spinning head.

“Dude! Did I just get freaking _pounced_ on—” The kiss came as quickly as the pounce, and was possibly even more dizzying. It was also fierce and demanding, and hot as hell, as Peter tried to suck his soul out of his mouth.

There was a slick tongue teasing Stiles’ palate, and abundant use of teeth, all wet and messy, and tangled up in the deep, rumbling, profoundly sexy noises Peter was making. Stiles melted into it, caught off-guard by this riptide of pleasure dragging him under, before his mind caught up with the situation.

Peter’s hand had wormed up under his shirt, spreading heat like a brand against Stiles’ bare ribs, and their thighs were slotted together. Stiles, with a staggering lack of good judgement, had grabbed two eager handfuls of Peter’s gorgeous ass. They were a few ill-considered thrusts away from full-on frotting in the middle of the Stilinskis’ backyard, at ten-thirty on a Sunday night.

The privacy fence was enough to keep the neighbours from complaining too much when Malia was running around during full moons, but this was pushing it.

“Bad idea,” Stiles groaned, when Peter started nipping and licking along his jaw. He gave Peter what his wooly brain assumed would be a chastising smack on the ass. Then he groaned again, plaintively this time, when he found himself on the receiving end of a throaty moan and a hard, dirty grind of Peter’s hips.

“Fuck, Peter—” His kids were right upstairs, probably still restless. Stiles mustered every ounce of self-control at his disposal. “No, _fuck_ , bad idea. Peter, babe, gotta stop.”

With a full-body shudder and a quiet whine, Peter stopped.

They breathed together for a few seconds, as Peter’s forehead dropped to rest on Stiles’ collarbone. They were still coiled around each other, a mess of twined legs and wandering hands, but the urgency was gone.

“Well, that was bracing,” Stiles said eventually, combing his fingers through Peter’s hair. Peter pressed into the contact, then lifted himself up, leaning in for a brief, soft kiss.

“Sorry,” Peter murmured, without the barest hint of sincerity. He kissed Stiles’ again, on the cheek, before rolling them both up to sit again. Except this time, Stiles was perched in Peter’s lap.

Stiles didn’t let himself react to either the pose, or to being hauled around by Peter’s nonchalant show of strength. He was determined to keep his pants on.

“I’m sensing,” Stiles said, squirming into a comfortable position, cuddled up against Peter’s chest. “You took that as the compliment it was intended to be.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Peter’s voice was like velvet, and his smile was radiant, gleaming in the low light coming from inside the house. “You have no idea.”

 

* * *

 

> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Home safe and sound._
> 
> _The walk was nice. Less offensive than the stale stench of a cab._
> 
> _Peaceful too. I didn’t even get the chance to eat any prospective muggers._
> 
> _Are the pups still sleeping?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Thanks babe_
> 
> _Yeah they’re ok. I peeked in, didn’t wake em_
> 
> _I’m hoping we get thru the night w/o nightmares but I’m not gonna b surprised if I end up w some company later_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Well I can’t blame them for that. I certainly sleep better with your company._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _U get so sappy after midnight_
> 
> _I sleep better w my big wolfy space heater too_
> 
> _It’s too quiet w/o u snoring in my ear_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’ve never snored in my life you little shit_
> 
> _I think you’re confusing snoring with “trying desperately not to suffocate in the perpetual miasma of heinous gas”_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Everybody farts. I refuse to b shamed_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’d never expect shame from the grown man who tried to dutch oven me a week ago._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _U deserved it_
> 
> _U wanna dish out the smartass sarcasm u can take ur punishment_
> 
> _U big baby_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _You tried to smother me with a fart because I made excellent points and won an argument. Yet I’m the “big baby” here?_
> 
> _FYI, there are other forms of punishment that would make me much more willing to roll over and take it. I’m happy to offer suggestions._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Well that sounds fun_
> 
> _But also counterproductive if I wanna discourage dickishness_
> 
> _Hmmmm_
> 
> _How abt we stick a pin in the porny ideas till I feel less like death. Today was gross and I still need to decide wtf I’m saying to dad_
> 
> _Sorry babe. My head’s a mess rn_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Absolutely nothing to apologize for. Consider them pinned._
> 
> _And if there’s anything I can do, let me know. I don’t want to overstep into family business, but consider this an open offer of support, however you want to handle things._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Thanks Peter_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Anytime, sweetheart._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Not just for that tho_
> 
> _For hanging around_
> 
> _Being so great w my kids_
> 
> _Stilinskis r a big package deal and that’s a lot to ask_
> 
> _But u just roll w it, and I’m just_
> 
> _I’m really happy_
> 
> _So thanks_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Now look who’s getting sappy._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Fuck off I was having a moment_
> 
> _Today sucked balls and I’m glad ur the one who got dragged into it w me_
> 
> _Better???_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _We’re still having a moment, Stiles._
> 
> _I’m happier now, getting dragged into the shit with you, than I ever was before you came into my life._
> 
> _And the whole package isn’t a bad deal. Your kids aren’t an obstacle or a drawback for me. I enjoy being around them, they’re great kids._
> 
> _Hell, we might never have met without the twins. Remind me to buy them something sugary and expensive._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I can’t even deal w u_
> 
> _Lia luvs red vines, Scotty luvs gummy bears, they both luv chocolate IN MODERATE AMOUNTS u nutcase_
> 
> _And if u try to buy them a pony I’ll set u on fire_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _You know I love it when you talk dirty._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I mean it Cujo. Flamethrower. Molotov. Test me_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I know you’re serious baby. That’s why it’s so sexy._
> 
>  

* * *

 

Stiles decided to leave the Skala issue alone for the rest of the week. He wasn’t going to risk ruining March Break for the peanuts, and they were going to be underfoot until preschool started again on Monday.

Plus, yeah, he was self-aware enough to know he was pretty edgy about this whole mess. Like, _incandescently_ _furious_ , even. Taking some time to cool off and examine things logically before approaching his dad was probably a good idea.

The only problem with this plan was his dad. Because John Stilinski had been a cop for nearly twenty-seven years, and military police before that. He sort of had a nose for sniffing out suspicious activity and, evidently, Stiles wasn't as subtle as he'd thought.

“Okay son,” John said, on Wednesday night. The twins had already been bathed and put to bed, and Stiles was grabbing a snack, when his dad cornered him in the kitchen. “I thought it might be the trouble with Jackson and Lydia still bothering you, but that’s not it. Or, that’s not all it is, anyway. You’re upset with me.”

Stiles stared into the fridge, not even glancing over at where John was standing just inside the kitchen doorway. He considered his options silently, then grabbed the milk.

“Stiles—”

“I’m not talking about this while the kids are home.” The milk hit the countertop with a thud and a slosh, harder than necessary. Stiles busied himself grabbing a bowl and a spoon. Cereal seemed about right. “Trust me, it’ll keep.”

“Stiles,” John said again, firmer this time. Stiles’ mouth tightened up, lips pressing together. He inhaled deeply through his nose, and exhaled the same way.

Fuck it.

“Fine. Were you ever going to tell me?” He laid his spoon on the cupboard with exaggerated care, and turned to look at his dad.

John had changed into civvies when he got home after work— old jeans and a sweatshirt, with his reading glasses hanging from his collar. The only light turned on in the kitchen was the one over the sink; the dimness emphasized the creases in his forehead and around his eyes.

Stiles was well aware that many of those worry lines were because of him. His thoughts immediately sprang to his own kids, and the literally endless amounts of shit he’d willingly pile on himself to keep them safe and happy. The thread of empathy squeezing around his heart was entirely unwelcome at the moment.

He was still too pissed off to deal with this.

“About the Skalas,” Stiles continued in a low, even voice, when his dad didn’t prompt him for more. “Trying to take Lia.”

John flinched, and looked away. The reaction didn’t feel anything like a victory.

“Were you _ever_ gonna tell me?” Stiles asked again.

“I don’t know.” John uncrossed one arm, just enough to rub a hand over his jaw. Stiles watched him steeling himself, straightening up. He recognised all the signs of his dad gathering resources for an argument.

“You’d just got your degree,” John said, and it sounded rehearsed. As if he’d spent a lot of time thinking about this explanation, about this discussion, but never saw fit to actually say a word. “You were looking for work, and you were raising two babies. Jackson and Lydia were getting married. You were stretched so thin, worrying about the twins, about money, about me. About everything but yourself. Then Talia and Bryony Hale came to see me, and I knew I had to do something. Keeping things quiet meant you had one less thing to worry about. I don’t regret how things were handled.”

“It wasn’t your call.” It was weird, having this conversation and knowing things had to stay so quiet. Level and calm. Stiles felt like he had a tempest leashed behind his ribs; he was grasping the edge of the counter with white knuckles, on either side of his hips. That anchor was keeping him from flying apart. “They’re my kids. Malia is my daughter. I deserved to know that somebody wanted to steal her from me. It’s my job to keep her safe, and I can’t do that if I don’t _know_ this shit.”

Finally, John met his gaze again. Stiles could see apology in the softening of his eyes, and pain in the tension around his mouth and the set of his jaw. The most infuriating part was the rigid stubbornness, suffusing his entire bearing, making Stiles bristle. In this moment, his dad was an open book: he might be sorry, but he still thought he’d done the right thing.

“If I’d thought there was any real risk,” John said. “I would’ve told you—”

“It wasn’t your call!” Tapping his fist lightly against the countertop, Stiles clamped his teeth over more shouting. They both waited with bated breath, half-expecting to hear little feet on the stairs, or a reedy cry. Malia might sleep like the dead most of the time, but she still had shifter hearing. This was such a bad time for this discussion.

“I’m going to check on them.” Stiles pushed off from the counter. His dad didn’t move away from the door immediately. Not until Stiles had closed the distance between them, leaving barely a foot of space, too packed full of everything unsaid to be truly empty.

Stiles was the same height as his dad. Thinner, but just as tall. Broader in the shoulders, even if the rest of him was built lean.

John didn’t move out of the doorway, and Stiles stood there, waiting. He didn’t let his hands clench, no matter how much they wanted to curl into fists at his side. No matter how much he wanted to hide the way they were shaking. He stared at his dad, eye-to-eye, and didn’t look away.

It was probably only ten, maybe fifteen seconds, before John stepped aside with a heavy, weary huff of air. Stiles didn’t say anything else, striding past and heading for the stairs.

The twins’ room was peaceful and still when he eased the door open, slipping halfway inside. They were still in their own beds. Scott was a lump, wheezing softly in his blanket burrito, and Malia had kicked off her covers, with all four limbs starfished across her sheets. The idea of only one bed, one kid, and the other one just _gone_ —

Stiles stepped out of the room quickly, shutting the door as silently as he could. The last thing he needed right now was for Malia to wake up because her dad stunk up her bedroom with anxiety. God, if she looked at him right now, with those big chocolate brown eyes and the sweetest smile in the entire world, Stiles wouldn’t be able to stop himself from breaking down.

If the Skalas had their way, Malia would be living in a fucking compound in the middle of the woods, miles from the nearest town. Isolated, homeschooled, _insulated_ from humanity.

Stiles wondered if his good old Great Uncle Niels had planned on extending the _invitation_ to Malia’s brother, too. To her dad. If the fact that Stiles had managed to have a shifter kid was somehow his ticket back into Skala good graces. Back into the Pack he hadn’t heard a word from in over ten years.

Or if the plan had been to just grab the shifter baby and leave the superfluous humans behind.

If Stiles had to guess, the latter seemed much more likely.

It was tempting to go to his room and shut the door against the world. Start the work he’d planned on doing tonight, and get some forward momentum going on one of his current website contracts. Or queue up some Netflix on his laptop. Maybe shoot Peter a text, see if the dude was free to talk.

Stiles trudged back downstairs, and wasn’t even remotely surprised to find his dad sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands. An uncharitable quip about a bottle of whiskey being the only thing missing from this picture stuck to Stiles’ tongue like a bur, unvoiced, stinging inside his mouth. John wasn’t a teetotaler, but it’d been years since he touched a drop in grief, like he used to. Since before the twins were born, at least.

Stiles’ sock-muffled steps were whisper quiet, but his dad looked up anyway, almost the moment he entered the kitchen. “They still sleeping?”

“Yeah.” His bowl and spoon were still on the countertop where he'd left them, along with the gallon of milk. Stiles padded over to the pantry, weighing the pros and cons of Cheerios versus Frosted Mini Wheats. If his dad wanted to press this, to talk right now, he could be the one to make the first move.

“You always try to shoulder the weight of the world,” John said, gruff and faintly exasperated. It was a very familiar inflection. “And that summer? You had enough, without worrying about the goddamn Skalas.”

“It’s been five years.” Stiles grabbed the Cheerios. “I think I’ve got enough of my shit together now to qualify as _not a complete fucking mess_. Is there a certain level of adult stability I have to hit before I get to know this stuff? Like, I’ve gotta reach ‘Grown-Up: Level Ten’ to unlock that particular info, or what?”

John didn’t snap at him for being a smartass. Didn’t raise his voice.

“You’re not a mess, Stiles.” John was looking at the tabletop, chin resting on his knuckles. He sounded exhausted. “It’s not— I didn’t know how to tell my son that his own family wanted to take his daughter away. Even after everything was settled, I didn’t know what to say.”

“The Skalas aren’t my family.” Maneuvering everything over to the table without spilling was a challenge, but Stiles had experience juggling breakfast for twins. He managed, dropping heavily into the chair directly across from his dad, and popping open the cereal.

“Stiles, they’re—” John’s eyebrows were furrowed, and his mouth pulled down into a frown. Stiles waved off whatever his dad was about to say, pouring Cheerios with his other hand.

“No, Dad. They’re not.” The cereal box thumped against the table. “Blood doesn’t make a family. The Skalas don’t give a shit about me, _Claudia’s human kid_ , and I sure as hell don’t care about them. You’re my family. Those kids upstairs, they’re my family. I deserved to know. I deserved to hear it from you.”

Neither of them spoke, for as long as it took Stiles to add milk, and mow through half of his bowl, chewing methodically. The cereal didn’t taste like anything at the moment, and his stomach felt too knotted to really feel hungry anymore, but it gave him something to do besides sitting in tense silence.

“You deserved to hear it from me,” John said, eventually. Quietly. Stiles lifted his attention from his food, and found his dad watching him. “I should’ve told you what happened. Years ago.”

Stiles should’ve been told from the very start, should’ve been brought into the loop the minute the Hales approached John, but that was an argument he knew they wouldn’t be able to have that night. They were both too stubborn to tackle that particular detail calmly, or at a reasonable volume.

“Yep,” Stiles said, obnoxiously popping the _p_ at the end just to be a shithead. If the tic in John’s cheek was any clue, he noticed the intent, but he didn’t mention it. “So, tell me now. Details were a little thin on the ground in the middle of the whole _Jackson becoming an Omega_ crisis, shockingly enough. Everybody was pretty distracted. And anyway, I want to hear it from you.”

“What do you want to know?” John asked. Then he sighed, resigned, when Stiles mumbled his answer around a mouthful of cereal.

“Everything, Daddio.”

“I don’t even know if the Hales told me everything.” John held up a placating hand, as if warding off the rising heat of Stiles’ glare. “Hey, alright, I’ll tell you what I know.”

 

* * *

 

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Hey so quick question_
> 
> _Theoretically, scale of 1-10, how scared should I b if it turned out I owed ur mom a huge favor???_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _15 and scared shitless would be my expert recommendation._
> 
> _Stiles, what did you do?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I didn’t do anything! I’m the innocent victim of ur mom’s altruism_
> 
> _Which is just as fuckin weird as it sounds. I’m super creeped out tbh_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I see. I assume you spoke with your dad._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Yeah I did, for over an hour. Y what do u know???_
> 
> _U said u didn’t know anything abt this shit_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I didn’t, on Sunday. Obviously I’ve been making inquiries since then._
> 
> _Talia’s strangely tight lipped about the whole thing, but Beth’s been more forthcoming. And I have other resources._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _U didn’t think maybe mentioning smth to me was a good idea?????_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Sweetheart, I told you I was going to ask around. You said you wanted to talk to your dad about it first, before I told you what I found out._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Fuck_
> 
> _Yeah I did say that_
> 
> _Y the hell did I say that?? That was a shitty idea_
> 
> _Fuck I’m a mess_
> 
> _But hey I managed to only yell at dad a little tho. U would’ve been proud of my mature attempt at conflict resolution mr hale_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Sounds like you may have done better than I did._
> 
> _I might have gotten a bit sharp with Talia for keeping me in the dark about this. Especially after you and I started seeing each other seriously._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Oh god do u mean literally “got a bit sharp w talia”? Was blood involved??_
> 
> _Bad Cujo. Bad._
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _If I told you I got a bit insolent and big sis Alpha Hale put me in my place, would you kiss it better?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Omg r u srs???_
> 
> _Peter did u and Talia actually fight abt this_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Relax. We had a discussion, verbally. That’s all._
> 
> _Teeth were bared, a little, but no blood spilled. I promise._
> 
> _And my talk with Talia wasn’t just because of you. I should have been informed. That’s Pack business, not your fault._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Ugh fine_
> 
> _Still not happy abt this mess_
> 
> _So u know how thing went down yeah? Abt ur mom telling Talia what’s up_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I know that five years ago, Niels Skala contacted Mom first, probably because he thought she’d be more sympathetic to his point of view. And also because he’s been quite vocal in the past with his low opinion of my sister. He’s called her an idiot and a child, among other things._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Holy shit really??? The dude is a prick anyway but wow_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _And I know Mom went to Talia and told her what the Skalas wanted, and advised her to take a stand instead of allowing or supporting the claim._
> 
> _And yes, really. I’ve never spoken to him personally, but Skala’s known as staunchly traditional Alpha. Fanatical. He’s been Alpha for over fifty years, and basically kept his Pack like hermits for half that. He’s so set in his ways he’s probably fossilized._
> 
> _I’d guess he despises Talia and wolves like her._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’m not on his xmas card list either so fuck him_
> 
> _Ok but real talk? Ur mom doesn’t seem the “nice for the sake of nice” type. Why’d she tell Talia?? Why’d she even care?_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Politics? Maybe? It’s safe to assume Mom never does anything without motive. Sometimes serious, sometimes just her own amusement._
> 
> _She’s honestly fond of your dad, as far as I know. Possible motive?_
> 
> _She and dad finally divorced the year before this all happened, and it was fairly ugly. There was some family tension. Maybe she wanted to start shit with the Skalas just out of spite._
> 
> _Nobody trusts the Alpha who poaches children from other Packs. Pups are too precious. And technically, the Skalas had more claim on Malia than the Hales. It’s quite possible Mom was trying to put Talia in a difficult position._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Jfc. And ppl wonder y I don’t do the pack thing. Wolfy machinations give me heartburn_
> 
> _Also jsyk I'm p sure ur mom is a legit supervillain. Does she have an evil lair?? I'm imagining a lot of skulls_
> 
> _Peter?_
> 
> _Hey babe u there?_
> 
> _Shit u know I meant supervillain in the nicest way right?? Tbh Bea scares the shit outta me but fuck she's impressive_
> 
> _Peter I'll shut up abt ur mom if I'm outta line ok??? Talk to me? Pls?_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I'm here. Sorry sweetheart, I didn't mean to disappear._ _And Mom would consider "supervillan" a compliment, I'm sure._
> 
> _Stiles, I always want to be honest with you. Even when the truth is unpleasant._
> 
> _And honestly, if you want to stay away from werewolf politics, dating me is probably a bad move._
> 
> _Even if I’m an exemplary boyfriend in many other ways._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Hey listen up fucker_
> 
> _I’m not stupid and I didn’t jump into this blind_
> 
> _I’m dating u, my handsome weirdo asshole bf. Dating u, not hale pack._
> 
> _But all the unavoidable politics and bullshit that come w that?? Worth it. Totally worth it, no refunds or returns required. So chill_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> “ _Handsome weirdo asshole.” I should have business cards made._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Anyone around u for more than 5 min already knows_
> 
> _But maybe I’ll get u a plaque made for ur bday_
> 
> “ _Peter Miles Cujo Hale: Handsome Weirdo Asshole, Exemplary Boyfriend, Secret Cuddle Beast”_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’m not going to ask who told you my middle name._
> 
> _For the record, my birthday isn’t until October. Think you’ll still remember by then?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I know. Ur not the only creepy quasi stalker in this relationship_
> 
> _And it’ll b hard to forget since I’ll b dealing w ur weirdo self basically every day_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Well then, I’ll be sure to make a space on my wall. I’ll want a classy plaque. Wood finish, not that gauche faux marble bullshit._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Obvs. Only the best for my boo ;)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, two time skips. First, a little one to early April (GUESS WHY), then it’s on to summertime (and the living is easy).


	28. Bella Luna Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our guys indulge in fantasy in this chapters, in ways that may be uncomfortable for some readers. Everything is very consensual, and they agree on limitations and safe words before play. If you want more details before proceeding, please check the end notes (with mild spoilers).

It had been a week and a half, approximately, since Stiles and his father had their first discussion about the Skala issue. Certainly not an unreasonable length of time for an argument to stretch or a grudge to be held. Not by Hale standards, anyway.

Still, Peter was oddly unsettled by the tension still lingering between Stiles and John. It wasn’t his business, but he usually spent an evening or two at the Stilinskis’ every week, and it was impossible not to notice the way the two men were circling each other like wounded predators.

He might not be willing to stick his uninvited nose in whatever bad blood the Stilinski men were allowing to simmer, but Peter hadn’t been entirely ignoring the problem. He’d been cultivating a few ideas, hoping to improve this rather miserable shift in Stiles’ mood.

Things were better when he and Stiles were out of the house, either on a date just the two of them, or with the kids in tow. During those times, Stiles was more apt to give into the distraction and enjoy himself, rather than wallow.

Peter’s current plan had been designed to bank on that trend, just in time for Stiles’ birthday.

He liked John, but the dishonesty from father to son grated on him— he was projecting, he knew that. Regardless of the reason, while he wasn’t happy that anyone had put Stiles into this kind of mood, there was a selfish silver lining. Peter was almost tempted to thank John for his monumental misstep. Without this strain between Stiles and his dad, there was a good chance Peter wouldn’t have been able to get away with such an indulgent gift. But he had a good feeling that the opportunity for distance, for a pleasant diversion, for some good old fashioned pampering, might pique Stiles’ interest enough in his current state of mind.

He hoped, anyway. It was still a bit of a gamble. Peter had done his homework, though; he wasn’t winging it. In a moment of weakness, of doubt, he’d actually broken down and run the basic idea past Lydia, and she’d seemed reluctantly impressed.

It was Sunday, and Peter was sitting at the Stilinskis’ dinner table, with the taste of chocolate buttercream thick on his tongue and Stiles’ hand resting on his knee. Stiles’ actual birthday wasn’t until tomorrow, but cake and presents were happening today for the sake of convenience and all of their varied schedules. A lunchtime party, ostensibly to get the sugar into the pups early, with enough time to work it out again before bedtime. Having the family get together earlier in the day also worked particularly well for the rest of Peter’s plan; he owed Lydia a very nice bouquet and something else suitably luxurious for making the suggestion to Stiles, considering adult birthdays at the Stilinskis’ were traditionally later afternoon or evening affairs.

Stiles was wearing one of the tangential features of Peter’s larger scheme to make this a memorable birthday: a bright yellow paper crown, decorated and scribbled all over by tiny, enthusiastic hands. Peter had enough craft supplies in his apartment to open a Michaels store, all meticulously organized in drawers and storage totes in the spare bedroom he’d converted to an office space. It hadn’t been that hard to pick out a generous array of materials the twins might want, smuggle it all into the Stilinski house on Saturday afternoon, and then explain the plan to Malia and Scott while Stiles was banished downstairs.

Not Peter’s subtlest maneuver, since Stiles obviously knew that Peter and his kids were up to something, but the details were the secret part. And there was something utterly gorgeous about the amused, curious glee lighting up Stiles’ face when Peter finally reappeared, with glitter clinging to his fingertips and a sly smile.

The crowns, plural, had been carefully hidden away overnight for the glue to dry, and the pups had extracted a pinkie promise from their dad, making him swear not to snoop around. Stiles had agreed, far too easily, then later attempted to ferret out some clues from Peter, with increasingly filthy promises of sexual favours.

Of course Peter hadn’t cracked, and his willpower had paid off. Maintaining the surprise and seeing Stiles’ genuine reaction had been half the fun.

The pups thundered downstairs with noisy fanfare shortly before birthday lunch had been served. Malia, Scott, and Isaac were all decked in their own crowns, and Peter very tactfully didn’t mention the bright, wet sheen that came over Stiles’ eyes when the kids thrust a glittery, feathery monstrosity into his hands. Peter had helped with the writing, neatly printing _Happy Birthday!_ , and _#1 Best Dad_ in marker, as per the twins’ instructions.

It’d been a hard sell, but Peter had managed to convince the kids that none of the other adults needed crowns. It was Stiles’ birthday, after all; didn’t they want him to feel special?

Lunch and cake had already been eaten, and now the pups were watching avidly, bouncing in their seats as Stiles picked his way through his modest pile of gifts.

A new messenger bag from John and Melissa, made of sturdy green canvas with leather details. Pyjama pants and socks from the pups, brightly branded in the style of various superheros. Books from the Martin-Whittemores— a graphic novel and a much drier political paperback— and a pair of small, strange objects made of twisted metal.

“They’re puzzles,” Stiles explained, while Peter examined the one that almost looked like a very tightly wound triskele, made of rounded steel. “I get a couple every year. Usually keep them on my desk upstairs for when I’m brainstorming and stuff. Keeps my hands busy.”

“Otherwise he destroys pens,” Jackson said, while wiping a smear of icing from the corner of Isaac’s mouth. “Paper clips, _lamps_ …”

“That was one time!” Stiles glanced at Peter, shaking his head. “And I didn’t _destroy_ it. I sort of bent a thing that shouldn’t have been bent, and there might have been a couple parts missing afterward, but it still lit up. That’s what a lamp’s for, right? It’s not destroyed if it’s still perfectly functional.”

“You duct taped it back together,” Lydia said. “And if it was on for more than fifteen minutes, it started to hiss.”

“ _The point is_ ,” Stiles said loudly, gesturing wide. “It doesn’t happen anymore, because _puzzles_. Gracias, Martin-Whittemores. Hey, peanuts, you got any other presents over there for Dad?”

“Yeah!” Scott held up the last gift: a smallish box, about the size of a normal sheet of paper and two inches thick, neatly bundled in steel blue gift wrap and silky silver ribbon. It’d been overshadowed by the huge, frothy red and purple bow on the Martin-Whittemores’ present, but it was impeccably elegant.

“Fancy-smancy,” Stiles said under his breath, lips twitching, looking wryly amused. He also gave Peter’s knee a lingering squeeze before taking the gift. There were smears from little sticky fingers on the wrapping paper, but that hardly mattered. Peter still reached around the back of Stiles’ chair to give Scott a fist bump.

“It’s light,” Stiles said, giving the box a gentle shake. There was the barest rustle from inside, probably too quiet for human ears to hear. Untying the ribbon, Stiles draped it around his own neck like a scarf, before worming a finger under one of the corners of wrapping paper and parting it with a slow tear.

The box underneath was glossy white cardboard, unmarked. Stiles set it on the table, shimming the lid off and pulling back the tissue paper inside. He made a curious, humming noise, picking up the folded shirt and shaking it out.

“Holy sh- _ugar_!” Stiles remembered to twist the curse into something more kid-friendly, even as he gaped, slack jawed, at his gift.

The t-shirt was black cotton, not especially remarkable. Peter had bought it purely for the design on the front: a light grey crest, with Darth Vader’s helmet, and _Father of Twins Club_ printed underneath.

“Oh my god, Peter.” Turning the shirt around, Stiles held it up to his chest for the rest of the table to see. “This is incredible. This is so flippin’ awesome, oh my _god_.”

“That’s _Vader_ ,” Malia squealed, once she got a look at the shirt. Judging by her exciting clapping, Peter’s gift had at least two fans so far.

“That,” Scott said, then halted. Peter peered around Stiles, and watched the boy’s mouth moving silently as he pointed at the words on the shirt, sounding them out. “Twins. That says _twins_.”

“Like Lia and Scotty,” Isaac offered, and now all three pups sounded delighted. Stiles was still grinning.

Peter wouldn’t say he preened, really, but he was pretty damn pleased with himself. A positive response now might smooth the way for similar reaction to the second part of his gift. It certainly wouldn’t hurt.

“It says,” Stiles explained, reaching around to point out individual words for the pups as he read them slowly. “ _Father. Of. Twins. Club_. Pretty cool, huh? Why’s it so cool, Princess Lia?”

“‘Cause Princess Leia and Luke are twins too,” Malia said primly. “Like me and Scotty. And Vader is their dad.”

“It’s cool ‘cause it’s from Uncle Peter, and he’s the coolest,” Scott added, and Melissa made a soft, amused sound from the other side of the table, squeezing John’s forearm. She winked when Peter glanced over at her, and it felt like… camaraderie.

According to Stiles, Melissa and John had been together for almost two years, and cautiously flirting for three years before that. It was clear that she’d been absorbed into the Stilinski family by this point, firmly entrenched. In the privacy of his own head, Peter was willing to admit there was something strangely appealing about that idea.

“The _coolest_?” Stiles clutched his chest dramatically, bunching up the shirt and turning to Jackson with exaggerated shock. “Man, did you hear that? You’ve been usurped as Coolest Uncle. This is a dark day.”

“I think I’ll live,” Jackson said, without rising to the bait, and nodded toward the gift box still open on the table. “And I’m going to have a chance to defend my title tonight, anyway.”

“What?” Gently folding the t-shirt over on itself, Stiles tucked the bundle into his lap and started shuffling tissue paper around. “Is there more? How does Jackson know there’s more?”

He fished out the dark blue envelope, shooting Peter a narrow glance. “What did you do?”

Peter offered no explanation except a small, serene smile. Stiles stared at him for a moment longer, before tearing the envelope open and pulling the contents free. The card was simple, just brief, tasteful birthday wishes; the print-out inside was the important part.

“ _Bella Luna Cottages_ ,” Stiles read, unfolding the paper. “What is… Is this a reservation? Is this for _tonight_? This is for tonight! Peter—”

“We’re happy to take the twins for the night,” Lydia said, cutting off any protests or further questions. “And I already packed a bag for you, when I went to powder my nose. It’s in your bedroom.” Scott, Malia, and Isaac all perked up in unison, clearly catching on to the possibility of a sleepover, and all that potential fun. Peter could certainly relate. He was definitely looking forward to having Stiles all to himself for twenty-four hours, give or take.

“Seriously?” Stiles sounded astonished, completely off-kilter. “You already… sneaky, Lyds. So sneaky. I’m being ganged up on here. And _you_.” The reservation waved vehemently through the air, and Peter was pretty sure the presence of the kids was the only reason he wasn’t being swatted with it. There was no hitting permitted in the Stilinski house, even playfully. “Don’t you have school tomorrow, Mr. Hale?”

“I booked a personal day,” Peter said, shrugging. Stiles hadn’t immediately refused, which was a good sign. “Weeks ago. The sub they’re bringing in is decent enough, evidently, and I’ve left her detailed lesson plans, so everything should be fine while I’m off.”

One day without their Alpha certainly wouldn’t be enough to undo all his hard work; the bonds between them were much more tenacious than that, even if they weren’t orthodox. Worst case scenario, his Pack might stage a coup and eat the substitute. But if the sub was incompetent enough to turn a dozen relatively good-natured, generally cooperative, and well-trained pups against her in a few hours, it wouldn’t be a great loss.

“Was everybody in on this?” Stiles looked around the table, taking in the array of nods and knowing smiles. Lydia, and by extension Jackson, had been brought into the loop first, when Peter was still hammering out details. He’d told John yesterday, who’d in turn told Melissa.

“Dad,” Scott said, scooting close enough to press his cheek against the sleeve of Stiles’ hoodie. “Sleepover?”

Stiles heaved a sigh, leaning down to plant a noisy kiss on his son.

“Yeah, buddy.” At this angle, Peter couldn’t see his expression, but the smile he could hear in Stiles’ voice was promising. “Looks like everybody’s getting a sleepover for my birthday.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, Cujo. Spill.” Peter glanced over through his sunglasses, drinking in the sight of long, lazy limbs sprawled in the roomy passenger seat of the Benz. Stiles was watching him, apparently taking a break from screwing around with the radio and doing whatever on his cell.

It was still early afternoon, and they were just outside Beacon Hills, headed northeast. The drive would be a straight stretch of Interstate, until they got closer to the mountains. Then it would be old highway and backroads.

“Neither of us are _rental cottage_ people,” Stiles continued, before Peter could ask what precisely he was supposed to be spilling. “Five-star hotel, crisp sheets to dirty up, and gourmet room service is more your speed. And hey, I can definitely see the appeal, even if Best Western is pretty much as fancy as I get.” Peter groaned in distaste, only half-joking, and Stiles smacked his arm. “Shut up. You know wifi is more my thing than wilderness. What gives?”

“There’s wifi, I promise.” His hand migrated smoothly from the gearshift to Stiles’ thigh, just resting there. “It’s a present, not a punishment. Although it’s very interesting that you agreed to go, even thinking I might be dragging you out to some kind of tar paper shack in the middle of nowhere.”

“Maybe I figured the company might be worth the mountain man aesthetic, Grizzly Adams.”

“Maybe you already looked the cottages up on your phone.” Peter smirked, letting his fingertips dance along the seam of Stiles’ pants. “All the modern amenities, including a full kitchen, enough supplies in the trunk for me to keep you better fed than any room service, and it’s much more secluded than a hotel. Surrounded by beautiful pine forest. Not another soul for miles.”

“Romantic and slightly creepy, as usual.” Stiles laughed, propping his elbow on the door and his cheek on his fist. “You’re so lucky I dig you, you freak. Am I being wooed? Is this wolfy wooing? You’re not gonna drag home another elk this time, are you? ‘Cause there’s honestly only so much venison I can eat, and I don’t think we’ve got the cargo room for a doggy bag that big.”

“It should be a nice night for hunting,” Peter hedged, debating how much to give away. It would be over an hour before they arrived, and informed anticipation might be better than surprise. There were a number of details they needed to discuss ahead of time, anyway.

He pulled out to pass a Volvo that was apparently determined to crawl instead of drive. It gave him an excellent excuse to keep his eyes firmly on the road, rather than on Stiles.

“Clear skies,” he said conversationally, feeling the swell of curiosity emanating from the passenger seat. “Not too chilly, if you believe the weather report. But I’ll admit, I have different prey in mind. I did specifically ask Lydia to pack you a decent pair of sneakers.”

“What?” If he focused, Peter could hear the beat of Stiles’ heart over the low croon of the radio. He listened to the quick, steady rhythm, and his smile widened when dots were connected, and that pulse suddenly sped up. The musky scent of low grade arousal that had been suffusing the car since he’d put his hand on Stiles’ thigh started to deepen.

“If you’re up for it, of course,” Peter said. “If not, I’m still looking forward to spreading you out on the king-sized bed, which I double checked was included, and making you scream yourself hoarse without any neighbours to worry about. You’re delicious when you’re noisy.”

So very delicious, like now, biting back a quiet moan and squirming in his seat. Stiles sounded like sin already, smelled even better, and Peter inhaled, tasting the sweet, filthy promise thickening the air.

“Okay,” Stiles said, tremulous and almost croaky, then cleared his throat. “Let’s discuss. Yeah. Clarity is our friend. And, to be clear, you’re asking me if I’m _up for_ what exactly? What’s on the menu here?”

“Whatever the birthday boy wants, really.” Peter cut a glance over, and was entirely unsurprised to find Stiles watching him with narrow eyes. The high, ruddy colour creeping up Stiles’ neck and across his cheeks wasn’t surprising either.

“Specifically,” Peter continued, attention shifting to the road again. Ostensibly, at least; in reality, he was much more concerned with Stiles than he was with the traffic. “We’ve got an interesting opportunity, for you to run, and me to chase. And I know that idea turns you on. If you’d like to play, I’m more than willing.”

“Oh, god.” The back of Stiles’ skull thudded against the headrest. “Are you— Peter, did you get me a kinky, wolfy sex adventure for my birthday? Is that what’s happening here?”

“I absolutely did, yes.” There was no mistaking the way the muscles in Stiles’ leg firmed up under the press of Peter’s palm, thighs spreading ever so slightly wider. If they weren’t on a goddamn freeway, Peter would’ve been too tempted to pull over.

“Oh _god_ ,” Stiles repeated. “This is just… holy shit. For the safety of everybody in this car and in all these other cars, remind me why giving you road head right now would be a phenomenally bad idea.”

“Because we’re still in Beacon County.” Peter did as he was bid, keeping his voice steady despite the rush of blood to his dick. He didn’t let himself get too distracted by the vivid image of Stiles craning over the centre console, coupled with very pleasant memories of the hot, wet suction of that eager mouth. “If we get pulled over while you’re sucking my cock, chances are good it’ll get back to your father. And Alan might have a few choice words about my continued employment if I end up on some pesky registry for public indecency.”

“You’re so sexy when you’re rational and responsible.” Stiles stretched one arm over, combing his fingers through Peter’s hair. Peter arched into the touch, revelling in the gentle, teasing scratch of bitten-down nails across his scalp. “How long ‘til we get there?”

“An hour, give or take.” Less, if he pushed the speed limit a bit. Which he had every intention of doing, once they were across the county line. “Which gives us time to decide a few things. Expectations, limitations— fantasy doesn’t necessarily translate to what you want in reality, obviously. So, what is it you want? Be specific. _Explicit_.”

“You’re killing me,” Stiles groaned, slouching lower in his seat. He squeaked when the move made Peter’s hand slide higher up his thigh, but didn’t sit up. “Okay. Chasing sounds good. Chasing sounds very good, _Jesus_. I, uh, I’m sort of really into the idea of you... hunting me? Like, chase through the woods, catching, pinning me down. Which is a kink I’d probably be significantly more embarrassed broaching with my shifter boyfriend, if you weren’t currently _purring_.”

Peter didn’t attempt to stifle the deep, interested growl rumbling in the back of his throat. He turned his head enough to press a lingering kiss against Stiles’ wrist. “Hm, why would that be embarrassing?”

“I dunno,” Stiles said, which was a lie, and immediately contradicted. A faint note of anxiety was suddenly souring the air between them. “I mean, shit. I don’t want you to think I’ve got a fetish, okay? It’s not— _you’re_ not a fetish, to me. God, just let me shut up, please.”

“Stiles.” Removing his hand from Stiles’ thigh, Peter reached up and cupped Stiles’ jaw without looking over. “Come here.”

It was a brief kiss, because even with werewolf reflexes, driving with too much distraction wasn’t wise.

“Shut up,” Peter said quietly, possibly a bit fondly, then dropped one more peck on Stiles’ lips before withdrawing completely. “Sweetheart, considering my abundance of sterling qualities, I’ve never worried that you’re only dating me to satisfy some werewolf fetish. But the fact is, I am a werewolf. I’m stronger, faster; I could overpower you, and it gets you hot. I don’t see anything wrong with that.” The agitated, astringent scent didn’t fade entirely, so Peter forced himself to continue, with his eyes on the road.

“The fact,” he said, drumming his thumb against the steering wheel. He didn’t fidget, normally. Stiles inspired the oddest habits in him. “That you _want_ me to overpower you, that you trust me enough… You’re not stupid, Stiles. You’re not naive. You’re nearly as cynical about other people as I am, and you love your kids too much to indulge any kind of death wish, even if you had one. So no, I don’t feel fetishized. If anything, I feel like a very lucky man.”

“Peter,” Stiles started to say, after a beat of heavy silence. This was too much, entirely the wrong time for whatever this conversation had become. Anyway, they had other, much more pleasant things to focus on. Less sentimental topics, that wouldn’t make him feel as though he was forcing words past a lump in his throat the size of a grapefruit.

“Hunting, catching, pinning you down,” Peter said abruptly, slightly too loud, cutting through the weird atmosphere that had developed in the car. He hoped Stiles got the hint. “So far, baby, we’re definitely on the same page. What else? Tell me more.”

As he’d said, Stiles wasn’t stupid. Not by any stretch of the imagination. And while he might like to play at being a stubborn, tactless little shit more often than not, he did occasionally recognise when to leave well enough alone.

“Right, okay.” Stiles’ fingers found their way into Peter’s hair again, curling around his nape. It could’ve easily been a domineering gesture, intentionally or not, but it felt natural to relax back into the touch instead of bristling away from it. It didn’t rankle, like submission would have.

 

* * *

 

“You’re a bastard, Peter Hale!” The cottage wasn’t terribly big, but it was well-kept. Modern and clean. Not rustic in the slightest, once you got past the exterior and its _cabin in the woods_ look. Two floors, with a bright, open concept living area, a surprisingly nice kitchen, two bedrooms, and a spacious bathroom. Peter had done a lot of research before he’d booked it.

Pausing his unpacking of supplies, Peter pushed the fridge door shut and padded out of the little corner kitchen. He heard feet tramping around the second floor loft, before Stiles appeared at the top of the spiral stairs with his hands planted on his hips.

“Not that I’m denying it,” Peter said. “But why am I a bastard, this time in particular?”

“This place is freaking gorgeous.” Stiles started down the stairs, then decided to try and slide on his ass around the last turn of the bannister. Peter caught him in the ensuing graceless tumble, before he smashed his face against the hardwood floor.

“I’ll never get the damage deposit back if you break your neck, sweetheart.” When he propped Stiles safely on his feet, he got a kiss for his trouble.

It started playfully, with Stiles still breathless from his narrowly avoided fall, giggling between the press of their lips. Then hands sneaked into the back pockets of Peter’s jeans, while at the same time, Stiles’ tongue licked into his mouth.

Unpacking the rest of the cooler could wait. This was a perfect opportunity to test the sectional sofa. Check if it was as sturdy as it looked.

Stiles grunted when the backs of his knees hit the sofa, letting himself be lowered onto the pale cream upholstery. He squeezed Peter’s ass, dragging him down until they slotted together, hips rocking without an ounce of subtlety. It wasn’t a great angle yet, but if Peter braced his knee on the cushion, and hoisted Stiles’ leg up—

“This, right here, is what I mean.” Stiles flopped back bonelessly with a long, gusty sigh. “God, this couch is so comfortable. _Bastard_.”

Peter blinked. The hands massaging his ass slipped away, and their absence left him feeling uncomfortably adrift.

“Okay,” he said, drawing out the vowels as he bent down, nosing at the hinge of Stiles’ jaw. It went a long way to mollifying him when Stiles didn’t flinch away or complain about the scenting, but Peter was still unsure. “Clearly, the birthday present is off to a great start. What’s the problem?”

“This place is gorgeous,” Stiles repeated, tinged with a bit of a whine. He tipped his head to the side, baring his throat blatantly, and Peter couldn’t let the invitation go unanswered. Stiles kept talking, all while unravelling beneath an assault of teeth and tongue against his jugular. “Mm, yeah. It’s just, it’s perfect— _fuck_. It’s perfect, and the twins would absolutely love it. I mean, there’s basically a fairytale forest to explore out there, and a lake, and mountains, and it’s all so pretty it looks like a goddamn brochure. Seriously, babe, did you see that _view_? The kids would go freaking nuts.”

“At the risk of sounding incredibly clichéd,” Peter said, pausing to lick a broad, wet line over the bite mark he’d just worried under Stiles’ ear. “I have to say I prefer the view in front of me, right now.”

“Ugh, so sappy.” The words were half groan, half laugh. Stiles’ hands were on Peter’s back, pushing up under his shirt. “I seriously want to defile every square inch of this place. But it’s just _so nice_. For the love of god, distract me from the cognitive dissonance of sexy hideaway versus amazing family vacation cottage, please. It’s freaking me out.”

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Peter said, scraping his teeth over the shell of Stiles ear just to feel him shiver. The food in the cooler could definitely wait.

 

* * *

 

It was about an hour past nightfall when they headed into the forest. Stiles had insisted on darkness to complete the fantasy, despite the fact that he’d be practically blind. There wasn’t any light pollution this far up in the wilderness, just velvety pitch blackness. The sky was clear, scattered with hundreds more stars than the naked eye would ever see back in Beacon Hills, unless you left town and travelled far into the Preserve. The moon was a razor-fine sliver, barely visible, only a day away from fully hidden and new. It was going to be a very dark night.

Hopefully, they wouldn’t end up cutting their evening short for a snapped ankle, or any other mishaps. Peter had every intention of finding Stiles quickly, then stalking him for a while, unseen. He’d rustle around a bit, break a few twigs, and let Stiles have the illusion of being hunted, of evading a predator, without actually leaving him to bumble around on his own. He’d subtly herd him away from any treacherous obstacles and wildlife, and orchestrate the realistic, satisfying fantasy that Stiles deserved.

Peter had an extensive first aid kit in the back of the car, just in case his meticulous planning wasn’t enough to overcome Stiles’ natural clumsiness, and his first responder training was up to date. He had everything they might need.

He also had prey to catch.

When his phone dinged, he thumbed the alarm off. Stiles’ fifteen minute head start was over.

Leaving the phone on the railing of the front deck, Peter trotted down the steps, taking a deep, bracing inhale. The scent of pine and wet earth filled his nose, decaying wood and leaves, and a few faint notes of the animals their arrival at the cottage had likely scared away. Above all that, Peter focused on the familiar: a slight whiff of the artificial citrusy tang of familiar deodorant, the spices from the dinner they’d shared not long before, and the rest of a particular amalgam of smells that meant _Stiles_.

His nose gave him a general direction, and he had enough tracking skills to follow the physical trail of a human running through the woods. Especially a human with no wilderness training or experience at this sort of evasion.

Peter fully expected it to be about as challenging as hide and seek with his class, but even the promise of an easy chase was enough to make his blood sing in his veins. The prize at the end of this game would be much more satisfying than a dogpile with a dozen six-year-olds.

Pausing just inside the treeline, Peter tipped his head back and howled.

 

* * *

 

It took longer than he’d anticipated to track down his quarry. Stiles had started off by traveling into the wind, leaving a glaring trail of scent behind him. It’d seemed like a simple mistake, made by someone unused to playing prey. A mistake, until Peter found a hoodie draped over a bush, reeking of Stiles. The trail changed direction from that point, and the smell became much fainter, blowing away from Peter rather than towards him.

“Clever little bastard,” Peter said, grinning, and left the hoodie where it lay. His gums were itching, fangs aching to drop, and he let the shift happen.

Even travelling downwind, Stiles left clues of his passing behind, and Peter was a very good hunter. Eventually, the crinkling of dried leaves and needles under sneakers gave the game away. It’d been over a half hour since Peter had left the porch; not bad at all, really. Stiles deserved a reward.

Keeping low and staying in the shadows of the pines, he circled around, closing in on the sounds. Definitely footsteps, cautiously slow, and the almost inaudible hiss of a curse. Stiles’ heartbeat, rapid with nerves and adrenaline, but relatively steady. Nothing worrying.

“Shit,” Stiles whispered, barely louder than a breath. He probably knew he’d made a mistake, stepping in the crunchy underbrush. He didn’t know Peter had found him. Not yet, anyway.

Peter dropped into a comfortable crouch, watching as Stiles tentatively tiptoed his way back to quieter footing. A pebble was easy enough to find; Peter weighed the small stone in his palm for a moment, considering, then tossed it through the trees.

The crack of it impacting a tree trunk thirty feet away might as well have been a gunshot, ringing out in the quiet forest, sudden and startling. Stiles froze, his heart rate increasing, and Peter sniffed the air silently, drinking in the fresh heady wave of excitement. There was fear on the air, but it was oddly sugary, not bitter like real terror. Still tart with adrenaline, briney with sweat, but the musk of arousal was unmistakable, overlaying all the rest. Stiles smelled like sex already, sweet and lush. Peter was ravenous for a taste.

He watched Stiles standing motionless, still a statue except for the quick rise and fall of his chest. He could almost hear the gears in that beautiful brain turning, thinking, trying to determine whether the danger was real. Trying to plan.

Peter picked up another pebble, tossing it into the scrub not far from where his first throw had hit, but definitely closer to them both. It clattered through the crowded branches of a bush, and Stiles was off like a shot, awkward and flailing until he settled into a loping run.

He really ought to leave Stiles alone for a little while to run himself breathless. Let him wonder if he’d gotten away, by some miracle. Give the doubts enough time to creep in: was the noise he’d heard really the wolf on his heels, or just the wind?

They’d been out for nearly an hour now, traipsing around the dark, damp forest. The mountain air was fresh with the bite of spring, and chances were good that Stiles would be getting cold soon, without his hoodie layered under his jacket.

And, on the most visceral level, Stiles was running, with his heart rabbiting and his lungs heaving. _Fuck_ , Peter needed to chase.

He was faster on all fours, so that’s how he stayed, eating up the distance between them in a few seconds. Neither of them were making an effort to be quiet anymore, stealth abandoned. Peter snarled, and Stiles cursed again, louder and more frantic as he weaved between a copse of spindly trees.

One solid tackle would have Stiles pinned to the dirt, but Peter wasn’t quite finished playing. He banked wide, easily outpacing Stiles’ strides, then got out in front and turned around. Stiles didn’t immediately notice that his pursuit had moved from behind him to ahead, cutting him off, until Peter hunkered down, mostly hidden in shadow, and roared.

“Jesus fuck!” Skidding to a panicked stop, Stiles tried to scramble backward, probably to change direction and keep running, but tripped over his own feet and landed hard on his ass. Peter stayed put, waiting for Stiles to catch the breath that had just been knocked out of him from the fall. If there were bruises, he’d be sure to kiss them better later.

To his credit, Stiles recovered quickly. A couple seconds of wheezing, and then he was turning himself over, crawling away on his hands and knees.

Peter lunged forward before Stiles had the chance to gain his feet, grabbing hold of one narrow-boned ankle and yanking, careful not to twist. Stiles’ fingers dug into the mossy earth, trying to cling, but he didn’t have any hope of anchoring himself.

Dragging Stiles close, Peter splayed over his back, pressing them together from shoulders to knees. Stiles was thrashing, grunting and cursing as he tried to fight the strength of Peter’s grip and his body weight, but the first warning scrape of Peter’s fangs against the back of his neck made him seize up, stiff as a board.

There was no reason to ignore temptation at this point; Peter breathed deep, filling his lungs with the heady scent of Stiles’ sweat. He licked a broad stripe across tender skin, tasting salt and iron, feeling the delicate knobs of spine under his tongue. His prey was caught, squirming and helpless, and he growled as his dick throbbed in his jeans.

In one smooth motion, Peter lifted himself up just enough to turn Stiles over, catching both of Stiles’ wrists in one hand and pinning them to the ground over their heads. Rutting into that tight little ass while Stiles was laid out on his stomach might have satisfied some primal drives, possibly for both of them, but Peter wanted to set his teeth against the vulnerable curve of Stiles’ throat. He wanted to hold him down, and feel the hard line of Stiles’ cock, dragging between their stomachs.

He wanted to watch Stiles’ face as he stripped him, claws shredding cloth and skating over soft skin. To spread Stiles’ long, pale legs and see that plush mouth fall slack with pleasure as he fucked up into him, still loose and wet from a thorough prepping back at the cottage.

And if Stiles really had his heart set on being fucked on his knees in the woods, mounted like a wild thing, there was always round two.

The moment he was yanked onto his back, Stiles started to struggle harder again, spine arching and hips bucking. Peter snarled, leaning in to nuzzle and bite at Stiles’ jaw. Or, he would’ve done, if a bitter note of genuine terror hadn’t suddenly wafted up into his face. The scent was unmistakable, making him freeze. Stiles was staring at him, their eyes locked; the unblinking glow of Peter’s gaze was likely the only thing he could see clearly in the dark.

“ _Fuck_ —” Stiles’ voice was reedy, squeaking like a teenager. His heart was pounding impossibly fast, and Peter would have backed off regardless, even without the next word out of his mouth. “Red, fuck—”

Immediately, Peter sat back, releasing his grip and rising up on his knees to lift his weight off of Stiles. He didn’t retreat completely, since according to their discussion in the car about limitations and safe words, Stiles probably wouldn’t want to feel entirely untethered after he’d called _red_. Hopefully, this was enough space to give them both some breathing room.

“Stiles?” Something had obviously gone very wrong. But the moment Peter spoke, the tension bled out in an immense rush, like air being let out of a balloon. Stiles relaxed back onto the leaf litter, limp with relief.

“Oh, thank god.” Stiles scrubbed his hands over his face, and it sounded like he was laughing, albeit weakly. “You scared the shit out of me. How did you— no, never mind. I legit almost had a panic attack, you asshole. God, I can’t die on sex adventure. What’ll they tell the kids?”

“Stiles,” Peter tried again, and reached out carefully, touching Stiles’ arm. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles said, still muffled against his own palms. Peter took a surreptitious sniff, but the acrid stench of fear really was fading, and Stiles’ heart was slowing too. “I didn’t expect—” Finally, Stiles dropped his hands from his face, just in time to gesture with them instead, flapping at Peter. “Your eyes. That was so weird. I don’t… I think I panicked. Freaked out. But I’m good now. I’m super good, super green, promise.”

It didn’t make a great deal of sense, but then, it didn’t need to. Usually, Stiles enjoyed when Peter brought werewolf traits into their sex life, whether it was the strength to manhandle, teasing with claws and fangs, or even just the glow of his eyes. Usually, however, they were tucked safely away in his apartment, not out in the middle of a dark forest. Different situation, different reaction.

“I ruined the mood, didn’t I?” Stiles patted the ground blindly before finding Peter’s knees, sliding up to grip his thighs. “Yeah, I did. I think my hands are shaking. Shit.”

“I’m in the mood to make sure you’re really alright.” Moving very slowly, Peter curled his fingers around Stiles’ shoulder, kneading the muscle. “Can you sit up?”

“Yeah.” Stiles heaved himself up, pressing his face into Peter’s chest without prompting. His arms wrapped tightly around Peter’s waist. “I would not say no to a hug, just saying.”

Things seemed calm enough, so Peter lowered himself back down a little, still straddling Stiles’ legs. He settled in, returning the hug and nuzzling into the clean, sweaty scent of Stiles’ hair.

 

* * *

 

“I wanna try again.” They were back at the cottage, curled together in bed under layers of soft, fresh smelling blankets. A hot shower and a slow, meticulous blowjob had reduced Stiles to a calm puddle. Currently, he was draped over Peter’s chest, languid and naked. Cum and contentment were the strongest scents in the room.

Peter made a low, curious noise, rubbing his hand up and down the smooth curve of Stiles’ back.

“Not right now,” Stiles clarified, before Peter could dredge up a proper verbal response. “Not this trip, I guess. But I want to try the chase thing again, someday. It was really great, like profoundly freaking hot, up until it wasn’t.”

“I don’t have any objections,” Peter said mildly, smiling slightly when Stiles looked up at him. “We still need to talk about what happened, but I’m not self-sacrificing enough to refuse the opportunity to hunt you down, if you’re into it.”

“I’m so into it.” Stretching a little, Stiles pressed a kiss against Peter’s chin, then another against his lips, before breaking away with a jaw-cracking yawn. “Ugh, talk. Yeah.”

“Sleep, baby.” It wasn’t that late, but the adrenaline crash was hitting Stiles fairly hard. Peter kept petting his back, coaxing him to lay down again. “We’ve still got all day tomorrow to do whatever you want. Personally, I have every intention of spending my time spoiling the birthday boy.”

“Feeling pretty spoiled already.” Stiles snuggled down, twining their legs together. His words were starting to slur, as he murmured into the crook of Peter’s neck. “Mm, shoulda known it was you. You’re cuddly, even when you’re playing Big Bad.”

“You thought it wasn’t me?” Peter asked, speaking very gently. That was unexpected. Stiles hadn’t volunteered many details yet, and Peter hadn’t pushed, but he wasn’t morally opposed to taking advantage of this drowsy, comfortable mood to sate his curiosity.

“Red,” Stiles said, and for an instant, Peter thought he was being very firmly warned off. That Stiles was using a safe word to end the conversation. “Weird… there was a weird shine, in the dark. Thought I saw red eyes, didn’t think it was you. Freaked out. It’s so stupid.”

It was pure instinct that kept Peter steady and outwardly calm. Kept him from giving anything away to the brilliant, cunning human plastered against his side. If Stiles had been a werewolf, it would have been much more difficult to hide the sudden uptick of his pulse.

“Shoulda known you’d keep me safe, anyway,” Stiles continued, oblivious, and stroked one hand down Peter’s bare ribs. “So good to me. Get the light, babe?”

Peter reached out without looking over, without speaking, and pulled the chain on the bedside lamp. The room plunged into darkness.

He stared at the ceiling until Stiles’ breathing evened out, slow and regular. Safely, comfortably sleeping. Then he grabbed his cell off the nightstand.

Shielding Stiles’ face from any bright glare, Peter unlocked the phone and turned the front facing camera on. Staring at the black screen, he let his eyes shift, studying the twin lights reflected back at him through the shadows.

Blue. Nothing but cold, familiar blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fantasy: Peter chasing Stiles through the woods, overpowering him, pinning him down and having sex with him, even as Stiles fights to escape. At one point during the scene, Stiles uses his safe word, and Peter immediately stops. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, folks. Life has gotten hectic, and this chapter was brutal to finish, but exciting things are coming!   
> ([yes, the shirt is a real thing](http://twintshirtcompany.com/products/father-of-twins-club-t-shirt-black))


	29. The Supermarket Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, I hope you’re all doing well. Happy holidays to those who celebrate things this time of year, and my very best wishes to those who don’t, too ♥♥♥

Weeks turned to months, and sooner than he would’ve liked, the time came to release his latest batch of baby Betas into the wilds of summer, and their future in First Grade. Some of them might forget him, might let their thready bonds fade to nothing but an echo, but he had a good feeling that most of these pups would remember. Each year, his rate of retention seemed to improve, and the web of Pack bonds he could feel spidering out from the back of his mind grew thicker. Denser.

And anyway, he wouldn’t be abandoning them entirely. He had to entrust the rest of their formal education to his colleagues, but his pups knew that Mr. Hale’s door was always open, whatever they needed. He dragged himself out of bed at the asscrack of dawn five days a week, to stand in a cafeteria and supervise dozens of children mowing through wholesome breakfasts. He provided for his pups: he gave them food, and a willing ear. He gave them answers when they questioned, attention, and care. Because Fáelán was a blended school, there weren’t strict policies about non-contact teaching— werewolf children craved physicality, and banning hugs or scent-marking would be immensely detrimental to their development. His pups acted like a Pack; they smelled like one. They _felt_ like it, bound up together.

It wasn’t the same as the connections Peter could sense between himself and the Hale Pack. Even in the privacy of his own thoughts, however, he couldn’t quite articulate the differences. It was difficult to put it into words. His bonds with his family were so firm, so established, they were nearly a tangible weight. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t aware of them, weaving around and through him.

With his class, his pups, the bonds were fresh. Delicate, but potent with the promise of what they could be, what they could mean. Alive with potential, like the first green shoots in spring. Or the first spark catching tinder, waiting to roar into a blaze.

Peter could almost taste the burn of it. The searing power locked just beyond his reach.

He still hadn’t seen the barest hint of red in his eyes. It’d been months since their weekend at the cottage, and with no proof by now, Peter had fully expected doubts to creep in. It could have easily been a trick of the light, or a moment of panic, confusing Stiles’ senses. _Stiles_ had already convinced himself that he imagined it, and he was the only one who’d actually seen anything. They’d been out in a strange, unfamiliar forest, in the dead of night. The scene had been purposely designed and built-up to be dramatic and frightening. Easily the sort of thing that could have fooled the active imagination of a frightened human playing prey. It would have been perfectly reasonable to second-guess, or outright dismiss, a few seconds of probable delusion. It was entirely possible that Stiles’ imagination had run away with him.

But Peter had always been an optimist. Of a sort.

He may not have his own solid proof yet, but he knew something was different. Something was changing. He could smell it, like a shift in the wind.

 

* * *

  

> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _Leaving store now u ready?_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _Not quite sweetheart. This is taking longer than I’d hoped._
> 
> _If you want to head home, I can meet you there whenever this shit is done._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _No rush babe_
> 
> _Hey I have that draft for Talia I can drop off and the kids wanna say hi to everybody. Would it b rude if we came by?_
> 
> _Innocently interrupting wolfy business: good or bad plan to get my sexy bf into my clutches asap?_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _You know that might actually work. These two don’t seem eager to wrap this up anytime soon, so some distraction couldn’t hurt._
> 
> _Come save me baby. Before my brain starts leaking out my ears._
> 
> **From Smartass:**
> 
> _One dashing rescue coming up. B there in 15 <3_
> 
> **To Smartass:**
> 
> _My hero._
> 
>  

* * *

 

“—might listen, Talia, if you could set up another meeting with the Governor.” Peter resisted the urge to sigh audibly, but just barely. He spared a flicker of a glance at the Beta Deucalion had brought to sit in on these talks; Róisín’s face was a placid, pleasant mask, as usual. She was smiling softly, mostly to herself, as their respective Alphas babbled uselessly over tea.

It wouldn’t be remotely surprising if it turned out the majority of the Lowell Pack were stoned out of their minds half the damn time.

Even Deucalion wasn’t half-baked enough to ignore good sense and tradition, however, which was why Peter was stuck playing bodyguard instead of spending a beautiful summer afternoon with his boyfriend and the twins. This was technically an official interpack meeting, and only a profoundly unwise or unbelievably cocky Alpha would agree to meet alone, without any packmates, in another Alpha’s territory. Not only was it dangerous, it was disrespectful.

The Lowells were trusted Hale allies, but Deucalion had still arrived that morning with three Betas in tow. Only Peter and Róisín were privy to this discussion, tucked away in Talia’s soundproofed office; the other two Lowells were loitering outside, along with a pair of Hale Betas. Brendan was keeping an eye on the pups.

“He’s halfway through his term,” Talia said. “I’m hoping to have the new book out early next year, and drum up some fresh, positive press. It’ll be easier to sell it as a pertinent election issue that way. If I push too soon, he’s more likely to shuffle us to the side.”

“Clever.” Deucalion’s smile was wry, clearly amused. “I’m not sure why I ever try to give you political advice, when you’re always six steps ahead. Minimum.”

“I’m a werewolf, and a woman.” Talia shrugged. “If I don’t stay ahead of the game, they’ll say I’m dragging behind.”

“Too true. What’s that saying? Your mother’s fond of quoting it at me. Something about _women working twice as hard_?”

Peter certainly knew the one, he’d heard it often enough, but didn’t offer an answer. His phone buzzed, receiving a text, and he unlocked it to read the message.

“Women must do twice as well as men,” Talia said. “To be considered half as good. Something like that, anyway.”

“Close enough,” Deucalion said. “Bryony always adds: _which isn’t difficult._ I’m not sure if that’s verbatim to the original, or her own addendum.”

“The original, more or less.” Peter looked up from his phone as he spoke, not flinching as three sets of eyes were suddenly trained on him. He and Róisín weren’t expected to be completely silent— they were acting as both bodyguards and advisers— but generally the smalltalk was left to the Alphas. “Talia, my apologies, but we’re about to be interrupted.”

It was always satisfying when circumstances aligned to add a little extra theatre to his life. It was even more satisfying when said drama made him look particularly well-informed, and a few extra steps ahead. Circumstances, for instance, like a knock on the door, barely a split second after Peter made that announcement.

Rising out of his chair, Peter crossed over to the door, though he did wait for Talia to nod at him before pulling it open. Brendan was on the other side, and now that the soundproofing was out of the way, Peter could easily hear the familiar, enthusiastic chatter of the Hale and Stilinski pups saying hello to each other, and the thumping of quick little feet headed toward the back of the house.

“Stiles is here,” Peter said, before Brendan could. Then he turned back to Talia, dipping his chin with contrition that probably only his sister would recognise as entirely false. “Sorry. We’d planned to take the twins to the aquarium this afternoon. If you give me five minutes, I’ll explain the situation.” He tipped his head, indicating the room at large. “That we’re running longer than anticipated. I can reschedule. The kids will understand.”

A little heavy-handed, and stretching the truth, but Peter really wanted to get the hell out of that office. Twenty minutes ago, if possible.

“Nonsense,” Talia said, after a pause just long enough to let Peter know she saw through him. He couldn’t care less about being obvious, if it got him what he wanted. “We’ve covered all the formal details already, haven’t we?”

Deucalion observed Peter for another moment, before turning to Talia. “I believe so, yes.”

“Good.” Setting her teacup aside, Talia motioned towards the door. “Meeting adjourned, visit begun. I should go say hello to Stiles, so let’s move this to the kitchen—”

There was an enraged snarl from somewhere near the front door. Adult, werewolf, and not immediately recognisable to Peter’s ear; he definitely recognised the sound of Stiles’ raised voice, however.

He shoved Brendan out of the way, and had one of the Lowell Betas by the throat in seconds, dragging the man back from where he’d been posturing, fangs bared inches from Stiles’ face.

“Now, now. That’s impolite.” His words were a silky, deadly drawl, punctuated by the prickle of claws against the Beta’s jugular. He’d taken full advantage of the element of surprise, and managed to get a particularly effective grip. If the other wolf decided to struggle in earnest, it would escalate the situation quite drastically, but Peter would easily have the upper hand. “Is this Lowell Pack’s usual manners? Put those away before you embarrass yourself.”

“Fuck yourself, Hale.” The insult lisped around the Beta’s teeth, heavy with the growl of wolf. “Some smartass human, running his mouth—”

“Yes.” Peter cut off that diatribe before it could pick up steam. Talia would be pissy if he got blood all over the hardwood. “He does that.”

“Wow, thanks.” Stiles’ presence moved closer, until his breath was warm on Peter’s ear. Unafraid, despite the aggressive, half-shifted wolf pinned against the wall. “C’mon, Cujo. The dude’s a douchebag, but he isn’t worth the effort, I promise.”

The Beta, who was clearly a moron, decided to snap his teeth in Stiles’ direction, flashing golden eyes. Peter tightened his grip, digging claws into flesh and tendon without _quite_ breaking skin, and let his own eyes glow. There was always an additional implicit threat with cold, steel blue. The eyes of a killer.

“Marco!” The Beta tensed, then eased, slumping slightly at his Alpha’s word. Submission, if grudging.

“Peter,” Talia said, calmer than Deucalion had sounded, but just as forceful. “Let him go.”

He responded immediately, relaxing his hand and retreating a few steps. He ushered Stiles along too, not turning his back on Marco, but keeping himself between the two of them. The pups were nowhere to be seen; hopefully, they’d scampered off with some kind of distraction before Marco decided to make an ass of himself.

“What in the hell was that about?” Deucalion’s eyes were bright as embers, red and fierce as he glared daggers at his surly Beta. “We are guests on Hale land.”

“He was going to barge in—” Marco started to say.

“I wasn’t _barging in_ anywhere,” Stiles said, resting his hand on the small of Peter’s back.

“He’s honestly trying to play the _he started it_ defense?” Peter made absolutely no attempt to stifle his scoff. “It seems I’m not the only one trying to train children to be tolerable people. Does someone need a timeout?”

Marco bared his teeth, taking a step toward Peter; he was cringing back a second later, at the sound of Deucalion’s warning growl. The expected tug in the pit of Peter’s stomach was conspicuously absent. The instinct to bare his throat, or cower away, would have been a normal reaction of any Beta when faced with an angry Alpha, even if it was usually an easy enough instinct to overcome. But Peter felt nothing. Not a speck of natural submission. It was a powerful realization.

He smirked, reveling in the impotent fury twisting up Marco’s face, and the secret, fulsome rush of personal triumph. This was progress. Measurable, noticeable progress.

“Go wait in the car,” Deucalion said, brooking no argument. “Consider your behaviour, and its reflection on our Pack. Now.”

Unsurprisingly, Stiles couldn’t let the situation go without one last smart remark.

“Yeah, great seeing you again, buddy.” He tipped a cheery little salute at Marco as the Beta slunk towards the front door. “Glad to see the attitude’s as delightful I remember. Let’s never do it again.”

“You’re just making friends left and right,” Peter said, letting himself relax slightly once the door banged shut, with Marco on the other side of it.

“It’s my winning personality.” Hidden from Talia and Deucalion’s view, Stiles gave Peter’s ass a pinch, then slipped around him, offering the Alphas a crooked grin. He had a thick binder full of papers tucked under one arm.

“Hey, Talia. Sorry about the—” Stiles waved exaggeratedly, indicating the tense situation so recently diffused, then held up the binder. “And sorry if I’m interrupting. Wanted to drop this off, and maybe kidnap this goober, if you’re done with him.”

“Stiles.” Talia’s smile was sweet, but there was a knowing gleam in her eyes as she stepped forward, into the hug offered by the spread of Stiles’ arms. “We’ve just finished up, so your timing couldn’t be better. But, before you rush off.” She kept one arm around Stiles’ back, turning toward Deucalion. Peter might have felt less charitable about the possessiveness of the gesture, if Stiles hadn’t just been in an altercation with one of Deucalion’s Betas, in Hale territory.

“Deuc, this is Stiles Stilinski. Stiles, Deucalion is a very old friend, Alpha of Lowell Pack. They’re just north of us, bordering Hale territory.” She paused, ever so briefly. “I don’t think you two have met.”

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” Deucalion’s stance had loosened, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. Róisín was at his elbow, silent, her dark eyes trained on Stiles. “Though it seems you’re familiar with at least one of my Betas, Stiles. You and Marco have met before, I take it?”

It wasn’t entirely unexpected. In practice, the division between the Lowells’ territory and the Hales’ was somewhat murky, though Hale territory was neatly encapsulated within the bounds of Beacon County. Most Pack territories had little to do with human political or regional divisions, bleeding over the borders of cities and towns, counties, states, and even countries, but the Hales had been a prominent force in the area for a long time. Long enough to influence the lay of county lines. Because of their long-standing friendship, and a number of well established treaties, Lowell wolves had been more than welcome in Beacon County, even before the Anagnorisis; Stiles could have easily met any number of them before.

Though it seemed painfully obvious that any previous meeting with Marco had been memorable. Peter would admit a certain curiosity, which only increased when Stiles snorted a sharp, sardonic laugh.

“Yeah.” Stiles didn’t shrug off Talia’s arm, but he didn’t cower either, straightening to his full height in an unusual show of good posture. He was the second tallest person in the room, after Brendan. “We’ve met, once. I had a _discussion_ with him in a supermarket, like, four years ago. It got a little heated, and I let it get to me. I, uh, sort of punched him in the mouth? Not my proudest moment.”

The last sentence was directed at Peter, with a self-deprecating little tip of Stiles’ chin.

Róisín slapped a hand over her mouth, but not quickly enough to stop her giggle from bubbling up.

“That was _you_?” Deucalion sounded utterly gobsmacked, and Talia was staring at Stiles. “Dear lord, I remember that mess. He was furious afterward, railing on for ages. None of it fit to be repeated.”

“Why’d you belt him, anyway?” The accented lilt of Róisín’s voice was tremulous with poorly suppressed amusement. “He’d never say. Or, he would, then change his story every time.”

“No reason fit to be repeated,” Stiles said, with a wink to ease the sting of refusal. Peter could see tightness at the edge of his smile, but doubted any of the others would notice it.

It was past time they made their escape.

“Stiles, sweetheart? Where are the twins?” He’d debated the endearment for a fraction of a second, before deciding another implied connection to Hale Pack was more important than his usual preference for privacy. The Lowells, especially any hot-headed Lowell Betas, ought to know the Stilinskis were firmly off-limits.

“Out back, I think.” Finally, Stiles extracted himself from Talia, but not before pressing the binder into her hands. “I seriously can’t thank you enough for letting me get my grubby hands all over that, Talia. It’s incredible, oh my _god_.”

“You liked it?” Talia cracked the binder open, flipping through a few pages. “And you made notes, like I asked. That’s perfect, Stiles, thank you.”

“Yeah, just a couple.” Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly the picture of sheepishness, and Peter barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He’d seen the notebook, filled with pages of Stiles’ loose scrawl, colour-coded and meticulously organized, researched and cross-checked, that belied the claim of _just a couple_. Stiles had been poring over the borrowed manuscript of Talia’s latest book for nearly two weeks.

A number of annotations had made their way onto the manuscript itself, but only a fraction of what Stiles had actually written. Peter didn’t have to ask why; Stiles had already cornered him, making distressed noises and babbling about stepping on toes and _staying in his lane_ , wheedling for Peter’s opinion on the matter. It had forced Peter into the unenviable position of reassuring his boyfriend that Talia wouldn’t have asked for his input if she didn’t want it.

Beyond talking Stiles out of having a stress-induced stroke, Peter was keeping his nose out of everything to do with the book. Talia could feel free to write endless sugar-coated half truths to appease the masses, trying to shift werewolves into positive public consciousness. Trying to keep them tolerated enough to avoid outright extermination. Her strategies weren’t wrong, weren’t useless, but they simply weren’t _enough_. It wasn’t enough if humans only accepted some toothless, tamed, unsustainable mask. Wolves wouldn’t survive, collared and leashed. Not for long.

Talia wasn’t wrong, but hers wasn’t the only way. Peter had his own plans in motion.

“We’ll have to have coffee and a chat soon,” Talia said, running an oddly reverent hand along one of the page margins, stuffed full of the ink of Stiles’ notes. “After I have a chance to look through this.”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Stiles was beaming, and if Peter was _slightly_ more of an asshole, he’d probably have felt a twinge of jealousy. “That’d be great.”

Peter knew his sister; he clapped a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, before she could invite them to stay. “I’ll go grab the pups, then we can head out.”

 

* * *

 

“Peanuts are all tucked in,” Stiles announced, as he stepped into the living room of the Stilinski house. On a whim, the pups decided they wanted to sleep outside, setting up camp in the backyard. Peter had already done his duty for the night, squeezing into their little tent long enough to read a story and kiss a couple of foreheads.

“How long do you think they’ll last?” John muted the quiet murmur of the television. “I think your record at that age was two hours and change, before you crept back inside with your sleeping bag and your tail between your legs.”

“We didn’t have a fence then.” Flopping down on the couch, Stiles slung his legs up on the cushions and wedged himself against Peter’s ribs, demanding cuddles. Peter indulged him, lifting one arm to make a comfortable crevice. “I was wide open, just a flimsy tent between me and the world. A pack of stray dogs could’ve dragged me away into the night. And I didn’t have a sibling to watch my back, either, so. The peanuts got it easy. They’ll be fine ‘til morning.”

John snorted, all amusement and disbelief, hiding the wry twist of his mouth behind his can of diet soda. The Stilinski men had eventually come to some kind of understanding, in the wake of the Skala revelation. Peter hadn’t been privy to all the details, but now, months after the argument had begun, the bitter stink of tension was mostly gone from the house.

It was good, honestly, to see father and son getting along again. Nineteen years of his own paternal strife, including over five years of basically complete estrangement, was more than long enough to give Peter some perspective on the situation. Reconciliation wasn’t something he wanted for himself, but he was glad that the relationship between Stiles and John wasn’t shattered beyond repair.

The situations might be similar, but the results were miles apart. It would be a waste of time to try and speculate about the reasons _why_. Maybe Stiles was more forgiving than Peter. Or, when the chips were down, perhaps John simply cared more about his son than James Hale ever had.

It didn’t matter now.

“Hey, you got that face.” Stiles hand slapped against Peter’s thigh, startling him out of his thoughts. “God, you wanna hear the supermarket story, don’t you?”

“Obviously,” Peter said, and it was entirely true, even if that hadn’t been the direction his mind had been wandering.

“Which supermarket story?” John asked warily, and Stiles sighed, lolling his head against Peter’s shoulder.

“Hey, dad. Guess who I ran into today, and managed not to assault this time.” The two men shared a silent stare, before John echoed his son’s sigh, rubbing a thumb against his brow.

“I need beer for this.”

“So I was out with the kids,” Stiles began. John didn’t actually get up, nursing his soda and wearing a pained grimace. “They were like, a year and a half old, and exactly as adorable as you’re imagining. Anyway, out at the supermarket, just minding my own business. Thing One and Thing Two are strapped in the cart. There’s this guy going for the last loaf of egg bread, which was one of the only things Scotty was guaranteed to eat at the time, and after so long in NICU, we were always trying to get more weight on the little dude. That’s the sob story I gave Sexy Challah Thief when I was trying to scam the loaf, and hey, it was true.”

“Sexy Challah Thief?” Peter wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to laugh or growl about that moniker.

“Okay, the guy might’ve turned out to be a jackass,” Stiles said. “But he’s still not horrible to look at. Spoiler alert: I may have a weakness for cleavage, and you’re not the only one rocking the v-neck and bitable trapezius combo. Even if you do it best, babe.”

“Yeah, I’m out.” This time, John did haul himself to his feet. “I really don’t need to hear this story again, seeing as I’m the one who nearly had to arrest my son. In front of my grandkids.”

“Nearly had to arrest me at the hospital,” Stiles added. “Where the gorgeous nurse you’d been mooning over was on shift. Don’t say I never did you any favours, Pops.” He turned his attention to Peter, while John made his escape to the kitchen, grumbling under his breath. “So, yeah, where was I?”

“Challah.” And bitable necks, but Peter didn’t feel the need to revisit that immediately. “And at the hospital, apparently. Stiles, sweetheart, did you get into a brawl over a loaf of bread?”

“Eh, not exactly.” Stiles’ short nails scratched at the knee of Peter’s jeans, fidgeting at the denim. “I guess the bread scam was kind of charming? ‘Cause the guy ended up tagging along while we shopped. It was all going surprisingly great considering I had two toddlers and greasy hair, and probably looked like I hadn’t slept in weeks.”

Peter had a bad feeling about the kind of meet-cute story this was turning out to be. He didn’t care about some guy Stiles had flirted with in a supermarket years ago, but he did care very much about whatever Marco did to earn himself a punch in the mouth.

“Then the Pack thing came up,” Stiles said, suddenly sounding weary. “Like it does, when you’re a human dude with a shifter kid. He brought it up, asking what Pack I was with, and I told him I was cool on my own. That’s when things got awkward, and long story not-so-short, he said something about me being stubborn and stupid, how it was basically child abuse to raise Malia as an Omega on purpose, and when I told him to go fuck himself, he told me that I’d _learn my lesson_ when she lost control and killed Scott. That’s when I ended up busting my hand on his jaw. Which, punching somebody in the face? Really hurts. And having my hand in a splint for a month, with two kids to look after, sucked balls.”

Peter could hear his own heartbeat, steady and strong, thudding in counterpoint to Stiles’ quicker pulse. He focused on that, and the welcome weight of Stiles leaning against his side.

It was safer to stay in the present, rather than let his mind wander back a few hours before, when he had his claws poised at a vulnerable throat. It was safer to focus on the familiar, homey smells of the Stilinskis’ living room— crayons and sugar, gun oil, old wood, and coffee, blended with the individual scents of the family. Trying to recall the particular musk that had wafted around Marco wouldn’t do anything but feed his instinct to track, to retaliate, to _maim_.

It would have been well within Peter’s abilities to hunt down one Lowell Beta, if he put his mind to it. Disposing of a body wouldn’t be much strain, either.

“Hey, whoa.” The gentle press of Stiles’ palm, curling around his neck, made Peter realise he’d started to growl. A quiet, deadly rumble from deep in his chest. “Easy, Cujo. He’s not the first douchebag who got up in my face about Lia, and he definitely wasn’t the last. It happens. I deal with it. Dial back the murder glare, ‘cause I’m never making out with you again if your face sticks like that.”

Swallowing to clear some roughness from his voice, Peter focused on the here and now. On Stiles. “What, all I am is a pretty face to you? That hurts, sweetheart.”

“Not saying the face doesn’t help.” It was obvious from Stiles’ tone and the meaningful weight of his gaze that he recognised the attempt at changing the subject. But he was evidently willing to go along with it, at least for the moment. “But it’s not the only reason I keep you around. There’s your ass, too. And my kids love your cat.”

“What a glowing review.”

“Don’t pout, you big baby.” Stiles reached up, pinching Peter’s chin and pecking him on the lips. “Ten out of ten, would date again. But you’re still not gonna maul that guy, or I’ll be pissed. I shouldn’t have even bothered with him today. He’s not worth the effort.”

It wouldn’t actually be that much effort to mete out some much needed education. Peter would cheerfully tear out someone’s spine without hesitation for disparaging those pups, or their father.

“For what it’s worth,” Peter said quietly, half-listening to the sounds of John puttering around the kitchen, picking at leftovers from the fridge. They weren’t about to be interrupted, and they didn’t have an audience. “Malia might be an Omega, technically, but she’s not lacking in socialization, in affection and support, in self-control— all the vital things a young wolf is meant to gain from a Pack structure. I think you’ve done a remarkable job with her, and with Scott. And I’ve dealt with a hell of a lot of kids their age, so take that as a professional observation rather than a compliment from your boyfriend, if you like.”

Stiles didn’t speak for a long beat, still leaning close. Peter could count the individual lashes around his wide, staring eyes.

“Thanks,” Stiles said finally, and then Peter was being kissed again, softer this time. Slower. Lingering, until John cleared his throat from the doorway, and they broke apart.

Peter held Stiles’ gaze for a moment longer, before taking a breath, easing back. “I should go.”

He still hadn’t spent a night at the Stilinski house, though Stiles already had a toothbrush and some spare clothes at his apartment. He understood why, inasmuch as he understood that Stiles thought it was important. It didn’t matter that Stiles’ actual reasoning didn’t make much sense to him.

The no-sleepovers rule was still firmly in effect, and Peter had no intention of pushing the issue. Even if coyness was a lost cause, at this point.

It was a human thing, he thought. Because there was certainly no mistaking the way their scents were blended together. It wasn’t even as simple as smelling like two people who fucked regularly. There was a more involved, layered sort of scent. Affection, contentment, and all those warm, embarrassing chemosignals that Peter was immensely glad Bethany couldn’t smell, or she would never stop teasing him about it. Enduring Talia was bad enough.

And Malia could smell all of it, even if she didn’t comprehend the more graphic details. She knew that Peter and her dad had become close.

She’d started to treat Peter differently, becoming increasingly affectionate, increasingly familiar, treating him like Pack. Scent-marking him at every opportunity, falling asleep on him, coming to him for food, for affection. Asking him for help tying her shoes, and fixing her hair when it slipped loose from its braid. And she did all of it with absolute certainty; she didn’t seem to doubt for a second that Peter would be there.

There was a sweetness growing in her scent, something like trust. Like _family_.

It wasn’t exactly what Peter had expected. But now that it’d happened, now that it was happening, he could hardly deny the punched out feeling in his chest whenever the girl latched onto his hand. He couldn’t deny it was something different than the bonds he shared with his students. Different, compared to the love he felt for his nieces and nephew.

No, Peter hadn’t expected this.

Stiles probably didn’t realize there weren’t any secrets to keep from Malia, no subtlety left to keep alive. And what Malia knew, Scott knew, too.

He might not be a wolf by blood, but Scott smelled the same when he cuddled up, with his small, smooth cheek laid against Peter’s neck. Calm, warm, and sweet. Safe.

Both twins, and their father, smelled like his. Like they were _Peter’s_.

“You should stay,” Stiles said, squeezing Peter’s knee. Then, in case there was any question what that meant, he turned to his father. “Hey, you gonna be around for breakfast, or are you on shift? Peter makes really great pancakes.”

John lowered himself back into his chair, with a fresh drink, and a few crumbs at the corner of his mouth. Stiles didn’t seem to notice the latter. “Pancakes sound good.”

“You should stay,” Stiles said again, when Peter didn’t immediately respond. It sounded more like a question this time, uncertain, and that was enough to shake Peter out of his stupor. “If you want?”

“Sure.” Peter smiled, reining in the urge to drag Stiles into another kiss. They'd have time, later. “I’d love to.”

When Stiles smiled back, broad and pleased, it made something tug deep in Peter’s gut. The feeling was still new, still strange, but becoming more familiar everyday.

It felt like _progress_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been debating whether or not Deucalion would be blind in this AU. As much as I honestly wanted to keep it in, the Gerard storyline in Glitter Glue is so drastically different than canon that it just didn't work. I'm still torn about the decision, but hey, we get hopeful, optimistic Deuc instead of the post-betrayal Demon Wolf.
> 
> If you haven’t checked out the stories from Steter Secret Santa this year, you should! They’re so great, and I’m not just saying that ‘cause [I wrote some holiday fluff](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5462294). 
> 
> Also, unrelated, if you’re interested in girl!Peter pregnancy fic, [ I did a bit of that too.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5361215)


	30. First Day At Fáelán

Summer blew by way too quickly. It felt like no time at all before the sticky heat of late August rolled around, followed swiftly by the inescapable reality of September, and Stiles wasn’t ready. Not remotely.

“I’m not ready,” he said suddenly. Urgently. His grip on Peter’s arm was too tight to be mistaken for calm. “Really, really not ready. This can’t happen. They’re _babies_.”

“They’re not babies.” Peter didn’t look up from whatever the hell he was doing on his tablet, which was propped up on his bent, blanket-covered knees. It was a little after eleven, and they were both cosy in Stiles’ bed, all tucked in for the night in preparation for a busy day. “They’re capable, intelligent, sociable kids, who are very excited to start kindergarten tomorrow, and you know that. So calm down.”

Stiles gnawed on the hard ridge of a hangnail, until Peter reached over, pulling his hand away from his mouth.

“Stop it.”

“You stop it.” Stiles swatted at him, but stopped chewing. “How the hell is it September already?”

“Well, I’ve noticed it usually follows August. Weird, right?” Finally setting his tablet on the bedside table, Peter sighed, and shifted against the headboard enough to look at Stiles. “What’s worrying you? Specifically.”

“Everything?” When Peter just raised both eyebrows, waiting, Stiles wriggled down deeper against his pillows and dragged a hand roughly through his hair. “I don’t know. I’m just… nervous. I mean, I’ve been sending them to preschool forever, and this isn’t that different, but oh my god, it’s so different. This is school, Peter. _School_ -school. I’m gonna blink, and they’ll be borrowing the car, and sneaking out with their friends to get drunk in the woods, and getting their hearts broken by little douchebags I can’t murder afterward. All the stupid shit you do when you’re a teenager, and I’m _not ready_.”

“You’re not supposed to be, sweetheart.” Slinging an arm out, Peter dragged Stiles closer, nuzzling lazily at his hair and the side of his face. The move knocked Stiles’ glasses askew, but Peter readjusted them before Stiles could lift a hand. “ _They’re_ ready. They’re eager. And you’ve probably got a couple of years left before they decide to move out and get their own place.”

“Asshole.” He might be enjoying the snuggling, but that didn’t mean Stiles would hesitate to start pinching if Peter was too much of a smartass. His warning shot was a finger prodding at ridiculously firm abs, making Peter twitch under the blankets. “Okay. It’s not like I’m pawning them off on strangers. It’ll be fine. It’s all fine. All the Fáelán staff, they’re good people, right?”

Peter made a dubious noise in the back of his throat. “Well, I hear the guy who teaches kindergarten is an asshole. Exceptionally handsome, though.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” Stiles wriggled a little, fussing mostly for show, before letting out a long exhale, and deflating. Logically, he knew there wasn’t any reason for the panicky tightness in his chest, or the queasiness making him deeply regret the lasagna they’d had for dinner. Even if Mel’s lasagna was delicious enough to kill for, on a normal night.

Logic wasn’t much freaking help at the moment, but he was trying.

“Thanks for staying over,” he said, because dwelling on this shit wasn’t helping, either. Tomorrow was coming, kindergarten was happening, whether he was a mess about it or not. “First day of school is a big deal for you too, obviously, and being at your place would probably be way less of a pain in the ass—”

Peter’s palm was warm and dry, pressing over Stiles’ mouth to halt the flow of words. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. I’ve got this down to a system by now, everything prepped, ready to go. I’m good. There’s nothing for you to worry about, I promise.”

A sloppy lick made Peter pull his hand back, making a mildly disgusted face.

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna worry anyway.” Stiles took another deep breath, yanking his glasses off to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Promise me you’ll look after them. I know you will, just… Ugh, this is bullshit. Ignore me. Let’s go to sleep, and then it’ll be tomorrow, and I can get the heart attack over with—”

“Stiles.” Peter’s hand landed on his face again, cupping his jaw this time, tipping Stiles’ head up until they could look one another in the eye. This close, Peter wasn’t blurry even without glasses, and Stiles couldn’t quite bear to maintain the steady eye contact, his gaze darting down to Peter’s chin, his shoulder, before flicking up briefly again.

“I promise,” Peter said, sounding slightly amused, but without the sort of dismissive teasing that would have gotten Stiles’ hackles up. “I’ll look after them. I’m an actual certified professional, you know; I look after all my kids. Even if I didn’t actually care, it’s not worth the paperwork and the headache if I let the little shits go feral. But I love the twins, so that’s even more reason for you to trust that it’ll all be fine. Okay?”

There was something about that statement, in that moment; the room seemed to go very still. It was something big. Stiles blinked, focusing on Peter’s face. On the clear, unabashed fondness warming his eyes, and the small, indulgent smile ticking up the corner of his lips.

Peter was so devastatingly handsome, it still brought Stiles up short sometimes. Maybe especially in moments like these, dressed in just a pair of loose sweatpants, which he’d started keeping in one of Stiles’ drawers. His hair was a fluffed up mess from the pillow and Stiles’ fingers. Rumpled. Comfortable. Feeling at home with Stiles. With the kids, sleeping down the hall, after a story each from Uncle Peter and their dad.

Peter loved his kids.

“I love you.” Stiles realised exactly what words were spilling out of his mouth a split second after he blurted them. They hadn’t… neither of them had said that yet. This was the first time.

The first time Stiles had said it to somebody who wasn’t family in a very long time.

He meant it, though. Right now, saying it to Peter, he meant it. There weren’t any take-backs.

 _Oh god_.

“Good.” Peter’s smile didn’t waver. His expression didn’t change, even a fraction. He did, however, lean in to plant an easy kiss on Stiles’ slack mouth. Then he kept stretching, far enough to click off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. “Now, go to sleep.”

Stiles was frozen. He could feel Peter settling beside him, shifting around under the covers, sighing with contentment when he found a good spot. The ceiling was dark, any details lost in shadows, but Stiles stared hard anyway. Trying, by sheer force of will, to make the last few moments to make more sense than they seemed to.

Peter hadn’t even said _I know_. Which, while it still would’ve been kind of a dick move during this first declaration, probably would have balanced that with some serious kudos for the excellent reference. Fuck, he hadn’t even been properly Han Solo’d, here.

Whipping a hand out blindly, Stiles clicked the lamp back on, shoving his glasses on too. Lying on his side facing Stiles, Peter buried his face with one arm, whining pitifully at the sudden influx of light without warning.

“Seriously?” Stiles solved the issue, inadvertently, when he hauled himself up. Propped up on an elbow, looming, he successfully blocked most of the glare. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“Jesus, what—” Peter, ever dramatic, rubbed at his eyes as if Stiles had peeled his lids back and shone a Maglite in there. “ _What_?”

“I say I love you.” The words were both easier and harder to say this time, now that Stiles was fully conscious they were coming. He was too annoyed to keep them in, even if they ended up sounding a little strangled. “And you say _good, go to sleep_?”

“It’s almost midnight,” Peter said, like that was an obvious or remotely acceptable answer. “I’ve got school tomorrow. Believe me, I need my beauty sleep so I don’t snap and tear a helicopter parent limb from limb.”

“Are you _kidding me_.” The kids were in bed, and Stiles wasn’t about to forget that. Luckily, he was fully capable of expressing the depths of his displeasure without raising his voice, grinding out words between clenched teeth. “I said I love you, you fucking asshole!”

“I heard you.” When Stiles made a deep, dangerous sound, Peter seemed to finally understand that some explanation was required. He uncovered his face completely, looking oddly baffled, with furrowed brows. “Stiles, baby, I killed an elk for you.”

"You killed a—” Of everything Stiles might have expected Peter to say in this moment, ranging from the positive to the catastrophic, this particular near-non-sequitur had never crossed his mind. “Like eight months ago! In January! We’d known each other for weeks! You’re saying you, what? Killed an elk for me, in some melodramatic, gory profession of your love, after _one date_?”

“We were technically on our second date at the time.” Peter shrugged slightly, but despite the snark and that show of apparent nonchalance, his gaze stayed conspicuously locked Stiles’ face. “What can I say. I’m impulsive.”

“Oh my god, you are not.” The laughter wasn’t intentional, and it might have even been a tiny bit on the hysterical side, but honestly. _Impulsive_. “You’re the most anal retentive schemer I’ve ever met in my life. You have backup plans for your backup plans, all filed away in triplicate in that impossible, Indiana Jones warehouse of a brain of yours.”

“Maybe you inspire the spontaneous romantic in me.” Peter caught one of Stiles hands, lacing their fingers loosely. Suddenly, Stiles didn’t feel quite so much like laughing anymore.

“You’re always romantic.”

“I am, aren’t I.” Peter lifted their joined hands to kiss Stiles’ knuckles, because _of course_ he fucking did. Stiles resisted the urge to smother himself with a pillow, to hide the heat he could feel crawling up his neck, and over his face.

“So,” Stiles said, after a moment of silence and a steadily increasing flutter in the pit of his stomach. “Okay.”

“I love you, Stiles.” _I killed an elk_ might have implied it, but the actual words still hit Stiles like a train. Peter kissed his inner wrist, lips brushing delicate skin as he spoke. “And I love the twins. I’m not going to ask you not to worry about them, because you’re supposed to. But I promise I’ll look after them. I’ll do anything and everything in my power to keep them safe.”

“I know.” As he said it, Stiles realised how entirely true it was. He did know. “I trust you. I trust you, with my kids. I think… Yeah. I trust they’re as safe with you as they are with me.”

That seemed to shake Peter up, much more than tossing out the big L-word had. His mouth parted, apparently speechless, for a long moment. Then, in a burst of movement, Stiles was on his back, easily pinned under Peter’s bulkier weight. Fenced in by muscled arms, impossibly stronger than they looked, and the bright, electric blue of Peter’s glowing eyes.

“They are.” Gently, so gently, Peter slipped Stiles’ glasses from his face, and set them aside. He bent closer, all slow, measured movements now that the initial pounce was over with. Stiles tipped his head to the side without prompting, baring his throat to Peter’s attentions. To the hot huffing of his breath, and wet drag of his mouth, smearing ragged, fervent words across Stiles’ skin. “You all are. There’s nothing I wouldn’t… I’d kill for you. For those pups. To keep you all safe, to protect you, I’d do anything. I’d kill _anything_ to keep you safe.”

“Jesus Christ, _Peter_.” It wasn’t sweet, it probably should have been terrifying, but Stiles understood. He felt the same way about his kids— that ferocious, remorseless resolve to protect, no matter what.

It felt raw and wild, a vicious _roaring_ behind his ribs, and if the strength of it was more lupine than human? Well, Stiles was his mother’s son.

Burying one hand in Peter’s hair, Stiles surged up, just far enough to drag his teeth along the taut tendon stretching down the side of Peter’s throat. To mark, if only for the few seconds it took for the redness to fade.

“I love you,” he said again, harsher this time. Nearly as rough as Peter’s answering snarl, and the rasp of stubble and sharper teeth, scraping against the hinge of Stiles’ jaw.

Harsher, and somehow truer now, no matter how much he’d meant them the first time.

 

* * *

 

Stiles had dabbed some concealer on his neck after his shower that morning, to disguise the darkest, most obscene offenders in the Rorschach test Peter had bitten across his skin. That effort didn’t stop Lydia from giving him the most withering, exasperated look when they climbed out of their respective cars in the Fáelán parking lot.

“Neither of you have an ounce of shame,” she said, flipping a curl away from her flawless face. Other than a few artful tendrils, the rest of her hair was pulled up in a braid, crossing above her brow sort of like a strawberry blonde headband. Her lipstick was deep, unflinching plum, and her skirt and blouse combo was so slick, so sharp, Stiles was almost scared he’d cut himself just glancing at her.

They’d been talking about this day for weeks, months, airing out their worst fears to each other. He knew Lydia was freaking out as much as he was, which was somewhat mollifying. In fact, they had plans to go and freak out together back at her place, possibly with baby albums and copious amounts of ice cream, once they had to leave the kids.

It was one thing to know it, though, and another to see the proof with his own eyes. Stiles wasn’t the only one feeling uneasy today. Lydia Martin was dressed for _war_.

“That can’t be a surprise, Lyds. You’ve met me.” Steeling himself, Stiles popped open the Kia’s back door, grinning at his squirmy kids. “Ready, peanuts?”

As far as answers went, he got a cheer and a pair of little flailing bodies tumbling out of the car. Despite inheriting their father’s dubious gracefulness, neither of them actually face-planted into the pavement— so far, so good.

They each had a backpack, stuffed with supplies, and Stiles helped them shrug securely into the straps. Malia’s was R2D2— _not_ the version that made sounds, no matter how freaking cool that was— and Scott’s had a blue cartoon puppy, complete with floppy ears. They’d both picked out neat, comfortable outfits for the day, excited to try out their new school clothes, and Malia had wanted pigtail braids. They were too cute for words.

When Lydia helped Isaac out of her Lexus, with his crisp little polo shirt, bee backpack, and angelic curls, it became clear that Stiles’ kids weren’t the only ones dialling up the adorable to dangerous levels.

“Okay, got all your stuff? Good to go?” Stiles clapped his hands once, brutally tamping down the rush of emotion. The only choice was either get this show on the road, or burst into tears in the parking lot. Malia had already been giving him weird looks all morning, no matter how cool he was trying to play things. “Alright, let’s boogie!”

Fáelán had a paved loop for cars to drop off and pick up kids, but there was also a parking lot for visitors and, curving around the side of the school, for staff. All the kindergarten parents had received a parking pass for the visitors’ lot, included in their welcome package, valid for the first week of school. According to Peter, the parents or guardians of any brand new students, regardless of grade, got the same pass.

It was doubtlessly why the parking lot was busier than Stiles had ever seen it, and he’d visited Fáelán a number of times. He and Lydia weren’t the only ones helping tiny kids with brightly coloured backpacks out of cars; a couple of these people were definitely other kindergarten parents.

The shrill, all too familiar howl from farther down the lot just confirmed that assumption.

Thankfully, when Stiles peered around the back of the Kia, he saw that Brendan had Cora hoisted up under his arm instead of letting her run loose. That was probably the only reason at least one Stilinski hadn’t been bowled over already into the harsh, unforgiving pavement.

Brendan waved, while juggling a wriggling, hooting five-year-old and her backpack, while Derek kept pace beside them, watching his little sister’s antics with a pained grimace and the occasional twitch of his hands, as if he wanted to help but had no idea how. Laura was striding a couple of steps in front, head held high and not looking back, clearly trying to pretend she didn’t know the other Hales. Sixth grade was a big deal. Having your dad and your two younger siblings walking in with you on the first day, and making a scene loud enough to have most of the other kids and parents in the parking lot staring, probably wasn’t ideal.

Laura did stop long enough to chirp out a hello to Stiles and Lydia, however, and even wrapped all three littlest members of Team Stilinski in a quick hug.

“I hope you have fun,” she said, with earnest hazel eyes and an encouraging smile. “I’ll try to find you and Cora at lunch, okay? To say hi. You’re gonna do great!” Then she was off like a shot, before her dad ambled up to the car.

“Thanks, Laura! Hey, _buenos días_ , Hales.” Stiles reached up to clap Brendan on the shoulder. “Shall we?”

“God, yes,” Brendan said, and none of them mentioned the Cheerio Stiles surreptitiously flicked out of the dude’s hair.

 

* * *

 

The walk to the kindergarten class was relatively uneventful— Stiles knew his way around Fáelán by this point, Lydia was familiar enough to get by, and Brendan had actually been heavily involved in the design process. There were a few other adults with tiny kids trailing along too, looking somewhat less sure of themselves, but there was also ample temporary signage and posted maps once they entered the building.

Stiles glanced up at the huge clock hung over the admin office as they passed it. It was about quarter to eight, so fifteen minutes until classes were due to start. Ordinarily, Peter would be down in the cafeteria right now, but a couple other teachers, along with the cafeteria staff, handled breakfast program the first few days every year. Until the kindergarten kids settled in, and could definitely find their classroom without getting lost. According to Peter, his entire class usually ended up coming to breakfast program most days anyway, which solved any potential problems about the kids being unsupervised while he was busy elsewhere.

Peter had showered, dressed, and been gone before Stiles even got his kids up that morning. Mr. Hale would almost definitely be in his classroom by now.

Cora was walking on her own two feet before they started down the correct hallway, and Derek veered off— into Ms. Graeme’s First Grade classroom, according to the construction paper sign beside the door.

The closer they got, the faster Stiles could feel his heart beating, and shit, he was trying so hard to keep it steady. Deep breaths. Calm thoughts. He could do this.

He didn’t dare glance over at Brendan; he could already sense the guy looking at him, probably with concern. Possibly understanding, empathy, but that didn’t matter, because Stiles couldn’t risk engaging with it, no matter how nice the intention was. He needed to keep his mind focused on not flipping his shit, and that meant he couldn’t actually acknowledge anyone who suspected he was _so very close_ to flipping his shit.

“Dad?” When a tiny hand tightened around his own, though, he had to look down. Malia was peering up at him, gnawing on her bottom lip. “Uncle Jackson said you cried a lot when me and Scotty started preschool. But it was ‘cause sometimes new stuff is scary, just ‘cause it’s new, not ‘cause it’s really scary. And he told us it’s okay if you cry today, too.”

Latched on to his other hand, Scott butted his head against Stiles’ arm. “You’re being really brave, Dad.”

Stiles was going to _murder_ Jackson. He could feel the heat welling up in his eyes, probably not even slightly hidden behind the clear lenses of his glasses. Every time he’d ever cried with contacts in, he’d regretted it afterward, so he hadn’t bothered putting them in that morning.

Fuck, he’d really been hoping to keep the waterworks under wraps until he was halfway through a pint of Half Baked, sprawled on Lydia’s couch.

“Thanks, peanuts.” He sniffed, blinking fast as they came up on the right classroom. The big, brown paper banner proclaiming _**KINDERGARTEN**_ was missing— writing all their names on this year’s banner was going to be a class activity that day— but there were bright, bold letters pinned to one of the bulletin boards that flanked the door.

“ _Welcome_ ,” Lydia read aloud, pointing out the words to Isaac. Her voice was steady, but ever so slightly deeper than usual. Thick with enough leashed emotion that Stiles noticed. “ _Mr. Hale’s Kindergarten Class_.”

“Mr. Hale,” Malia repeated under her breath, determined. They’d already had a discussion about _Mr. Hale_ at school, and _Uncle Peter_ at home. Lydia had crouched down in front of Isaac, knees demurely pressed together as she fussed over his hair, his collar, murmuring words that Stiles couldn’t quite hear.

Stiles took a breath, then smiled brightly down at his own kids. “Okay, kiddos. You want me to come in for a minute, or...”

“ _Yeah_.” By the tone of Malia’s voice, she clearly thought that was the dumbest question her dad had asked in a long time.

“You gotta say hi to Unc—” Scott huffed. “To Mr. Hale, Dad.”

“Okay, cool.” Stiles was willing to overlook the fact that he’d seen Peter an hour ago, that he’d woken up next to him and definitely already said _hi_. Verbally, and again in a more hands-on fashion, after their respective morning breath was taken care of.

Stiles kept cinnamon toothpaste in his bathroom; Peter only had mint-flavoured at his apartment, with _gentle whitening_. Wherever they ended up brushing their teeth on a sleepover night, they were usually side-by-side at a sink, bumping elbows and hips, almost bumping heads if they tried to spit at the same time. And whether it was cinnamon or mint, the kisses afterward were always sweet.

He wondered vaguely if Peter still tasted like cinnamon now, then immediately crushed that thought. He definitely couldn’t handle his frayed nerves about the kids, and sexy thoughts about their teacher, all while still keeping as calm as he needed to be. It was too freaking early in the morning to tax his brain like that.

It didn’t help that Peter was deep in teacher-mode when Stiles was dragged into the spacious classroom by insistent twin pulleys, and Stiles had a few too many kinks about that. The outfit today was sinfully professional: slim, dark chinos and a fitted blue button-down that somehow hugged the breadth of Peter’s chest and shoulders without looking _too_ obscene, everything neatly pressed. He already had his goddamn sleeves neatly rolled up to the elbows, highlighting the thickness of his arms, and Stiles tore his eyes away before he embarrassed himself.

According to Peter, the class was about the same size as last year, except thirteen instead of twelve. And Peter had been grousing about the odd number for a couple of weeks. He did a lot of group work with the kids, and even numbers were easier to balance.

It looked like most of the kids were already in the classroom, along with a couple of parents hanging around, getting things settled. There were at least three weepy kids, though no earsplitting wails yet.

The desks were arranged in clusters, like usual. Three groups of three, and one square of four, arranged so no kid would have their back to the front of the room. Every kid-sized chair had a fabric pouch hanging off the back, with a clear vinyl slot for a name tag; the tags Stiles could see laid out on the desktops, waiting to be slipped in place, had names printed in neat black font.

Peter was chatting with a woman in a floral sundress when Team Stilinski made their grand entrance, but he excused himself briefly from that conversation to address the newcomers.

“Hello there.” The professional smile didn’t change, but Stiles didn’t think he was imagining the way Peter’s eyes softened, from fake friendly to honestly fond. Peter pointed toward the wall of coat hooks. “You can hang your backpacks there, please, and find your desks. I’ll be right with you.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Hale,” Stiles said, and the answering arch of Peter’s brows was suggestive enough to startle a short laugh out of him.

He hustled the twins over to the coat hooks, getting their supplies sorted out, and wasn’t remotely surprised when they gravitated toward the four-desk cluster, and found their names waiting for them. Peter changed up the assigned seats fairly often, so the kids could all work with different people, but he hadn’t split Team Stilinski up on their first day. Cora and Isaac followed in very short order, filling the remaining two seats.

“You’re gonna be good, aren’t you Cricket,” Brendan was saying softly to his daughter, kneeling beside her chair. The tiny furniture made him look even more gigantic than usual. “Gonna pay attention, and listen to Uncle Peter, so other kids can pay attention too. Right?”

“Uh-huh.” Cora wasn’t looking at her dad, too busy colouring in the O and the A in her name tag, with crayons, nabbed from the basket in the centre of their desk cluster. “Gonna be great at school. Easy peasy.”

“Cora and I have an understanding,” Peter said, sweeping in out of nowhere. Cora lifted the hand not currently clutching the green crayon, and Peter gave her the fist bump she was requesting. “It’ll be fine, Bren. Everybody getting settled over here?”

“Yes, Mr. Hale,” the twins and Isaac chorused together, looking pretty damn proud of themselves.

“Good.” Peter turned to Stiles and Lydia. “We’re going to be starting in a few minutes, and I’ve got some things to take care of before then.” He motioned, subtly, to a small girl with frizzy blonde hair, clinging to the jean-clad thigh of an equally blonde woman. The girl’s shoulders were shaking as she cried, big brown eyes red and watery with tears, and the woman wasn’t having much luck calming her down.

Stiles also noticed a silvery chain around the girl’s wrist— a medical alert bracelet, it looked like. He only recognised it because Melissa had given one to Scotty, with _Scott Stilinski, Asthma, Carries Inhaler_ , along with Stiles’ phone number engraved on the back.

Peter had already said that Scott wasn’t going to be the only human in class. Very privately, he’d also told Stiles that one of his new students was a special case. She didn’t have any shifter family, unlike basically all of the other human kids at Fáelán. Her parents had applied to Fáelán because the girl had epilepsy that was particularly difficult to manage, and apparently, they’d gotten it in their heads to send the girl to an integrated school as a precaution. Because shifter hearing and smell meant somebody would probably be able to sense most seizures coming on before they happened.

The concept of being treated like some kind of therapy dog had gotten Peter’s hackles up a little, but he hadn’t objected when Talia brought the idea to him. No matter how much of a prick he could be, Peter was pretty damned dedicated to kids. It was frustratingly attractive, really.

“Well, if Team Stilinski is good to go,” Stiles said, taking Lydia’s hand before she could reach for Isaac again. “We’ll, uh. We’re gonna head out.”

“I’ll see you after school.” Peter reached out, brushing his fingers briefly over Stiles’ wrist, nodded to Lydia, then slipped away.

“Bye Mom, love you,” Isaac said in one distracted breath, scooting closer to Cora. “Can we share green?” She passed the crayon over, and Lydia’s breath hitched in a suspicious little hiccup. Her eyes were very bright when Stiles looked over.

Yeah, they needed to get the hell out of Dodge.

“Okay, c’mon.” Stiles tugged their shared grip, but Lydia resisted. “Later, kiddos. We love you.”

Ignoring Stiles, Lydia leaned in to press her cheek against Isaac’s once more. She whispered a wobbly _Mommy loves you so much, baby_ , before finally letting herself be led out of the room. Stiles sent Brendan a friendly wink and a wave, and resolved to text the dude later.

Once they were in the hallway, Stiles was suddenly the one being dragged along, as Lydia’s heels clacked sharply against the tile.

“We’re waiting in the foyer for fifteen minutes,” she said, with an iron grip around Stiles’ hand. “In case he needs me. Then we’ll go.”

Stiles stumbled to catch up, before she hauled his arm out of the socket. “Yes, ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did, folks. And that you're excited about kindergarten shenanigans. 
> 
> If you like the idea of non-traditional a/b/o Steter, I finished the last chapter of **[Hey Lover, I Got a Sugarcane](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4683563/chapters/10691264)**


	31. An Olive Branch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks. I've had some significant upheavals IRL, hence the delay (on both this chapter, and replying to last chapter's comments). Thanks very much for sticking with me ♥

The morning was going very well so far. Peter already had a good feeling about his class this year, and not just because he was particularly, personally invested in three of them. Four, if you counted Isaac.

Recess rolled around right on time, and he led his new pups out to the playground, herded carefully together, paired off and holding hands. He wasn’t the only teacher doing the same thing; Peter nodded at Tara as she wrangled a few of her new First Graders toward the jungle gym.

“Mr. Hale!” Of course, Tara’s new First Graders were Peter’s former Kindergartners. “Mr. Hale, look! I lost a tooth again!”

“Mr. Hale, guess what! I got a puppy for my birthday, and her name is Daisy, and she’s got a white spot on her butt—”

“Yeah, well I got a new baby _brother—_ ”

“Mr. Hale, look! I got new shoes, with pink laces, and I tied ‘em myself like you showed us—”

“Hey, whoa. Easy.” Sparing Tara a look, and getting an amused, slightly frazzled shrug in return, Peter dropped down on one knee to get on the kids’ level. “A couple of months away, and you’re chatterboxes again. Come on, pups. We don’t talk over each other, do we?”

All five kids immediately stood up straighter, quieting down to a low simmer. Even Derek, who hadn’t taken part in the verbal barrage, looked sheepish. They were still obviously excited, but reacting well to the reminder of their manners.

“Sorry, Mr. Hale,” they chorused, not quite in unison.

“Thank you.” Peter made sure to make eye contact with each of them, and plaster on a smile. “First day back is exciting, I know, and I want to hear all about your summers. But right now, I need to take care of my new Kindergartners. It's their first day too, remember.”

“I miss you,” Lataya blurted, clinging to Paige’s hand. Her deep brown eyes were dangerously shiny, and there was a tremble in her small voice. Before Peter could start to diffuse the incoming meltdown, Cooper was crowding in, close enough to whisper against his ear.

“Ms. Graeme doesn’t do the voices right,” the boy said, lisping around the gap in his teeth. “At read-along.”

“Doesn’t she?” Peter leaned back, shaking his head. “She does them differently, Cooper. If everybody did things the same way, the world would be awfully…”

“ _Boring_ ,” the pups said, and Peter didn’t bother to hide his grin. It was always satisfying to have proof of his influence. To remind him his lessons could have a lasting impact, on them and himself.

“Exactly.” Satisfying or not, Peter really needed to wrap this up. He had a cluster of fresh Kindergartners getting restless beside him. “You’re all going to make me proud this year, and be good for Ms. Graeme, aren’t you?” He got a couple of nods, and some verbal agreement. Tara had an eyebrow cocked at him, still looking distinctly amused, and thankfully not annoyed or suspicious. He made a mental note to bring her a coffee tomorrow morning. Propagating good relationships with his colleagues was important, if he wanted to avoid too much scrutiny.

“Thank you, pups.” He reached out, cupping a hand around Lataya’s nape. The girl needed the reassurance. “You can always find me at recess or at lunch, or whenever you need me. I promise. Now, get going.”

 

* * *

 

Peter always took particular care of his pups at the end of the school day, leading them outside and waiting with the whole Pack, until the last ones were climbing into the appropriate vehicles. The first week of school was somewhat different, when most of the kindergarten parents parked in the lot and came inside to fetch their kids.

Stiles came in the second wave of parents, wandering into the classroom with a toothy grin splitting his face, and some familiar werewolves at his heels.

“Hi Dad!” Malia waved enthusiastically, but didn’t abandon the little huddle on the playmats.

“Hey, kiddos.” Sidling up to where Peter was leaning against his desk, Stiles waggled his eyebrows. The long column of his neck was bruised here and there with the imprints of Peter’s teeth, barely hidden under fading makeup. “So how’d they do, Mr. H? Any problems? Should I cancel the ice cream?”

“Dad!”

“They did great.” Peter tore his eyes away from Stiles’ throat, and glanced over at the pups on the mats, making sure the twins saw him wink. “Much better listeners than their dad, definitely. I’m very impressed.”

“Isaac?” In the midst of vibrant wall decorations and brightly coloured supply bins, Jackson and his sharp, perfectly pressed suit stood out like a sore thumb. Even Peter was a bit rumpled around the edges by the end of the day; Jackson looked as runway ready as his wife had, first thing that morning. And even more high-strung. “Ready to go, buddy?”

Brendan had Laura and Derek with him already, and a smudge of what was probably graphite across the bridge of his nose. “C’mon, Cricket. Mom’s making chops for dinner.”

That was, unsurprisingly, the magic word to get Cora moving. She narrowly avoided kicking Isaac in the head as she leapt to her feet, scrambling to gather her supplies. The other pups seemed to take that as their cue, and the exodus started in earnest.

“Hey, so, dinner’s at Chipotle tonight, with the grandparents and the Martin-Whittemores,” Stiles said, quiet and imminently casual, and bumped Peter’s shoulder with his own. “Treat for the first day of school. Which totally counts for you, too. You in?”

“Ah, regretfully, I’ve made plans already.” Peter returned the bump, watching the pups to make sure they didn’t need help shrugging into their backpacks. “Reviewing lessons plans, and take-out with the cat. The charmed life of a kindergarten teacher.”

“Gotta make time for my man Hobbes. I get it.” Stiles smelled like chocolate and faintly of the Dolce & Gabbana perfume that Lydia favoured. And, lingering under it all, the sour notes of anxiety that he’d been drenched in for nearly three weeks. Ever since he, Peter, and the twins had first gone out shopping for school supplies. The latter scent made Peter’s palms itch to reach out.

Before he could do something ridiculous, like offer to drop by the Stilinskis’ before bedtime, after the cat was fed, they were interrupted by another parent calling from across the classroom. “Excuse me, Mr. Hale?”

Peter couldn’t quite remember the woman’s first name— she was a wolf like her son, and at least tangentially tied to the Lowell Pack if he recalled correctly— but he’d committed the boy’s name to memory already. From first impressions, Vernon Boyd seemed like a quiet pup, but not skittish. Possibly just reserved, rather than shy. Maybe both. Peter would have plenty of time to get to know him.

“Duty calls,” Stiles murmured, teasing, but the smile he sent Peter’s way was warm. He reached out, skimming his fingers across the back of Peter’s hand, before he pushed away from the desk. “Later, Mr. H. Hey, Team Stilinski! We ready to rock?”

Caught up answering Mrs. Boyd’s questions, Peter missed the Stilinskis slipping out of the room. His chest twinged, tightening ever so slightly, when he looked around and realised they were already gone.

He’d see them tomorrow, of course. Honestly, he’d likely speak to them all later that evening. Once the pups were tucked in, he’d get a call for some enthusiastic goodnights, and if the twins were particularly persuasive, it wouldn’t be the first time he got roped into reading a bedtime story over the phone.

It was so painfully domestic, Peter half-expected to break out in hives. The fact that it didn’t feel stifling, didn’t grate on his nerves even slightly, was something entirely unexpected, but not unwelcome.

Fuck, he _liked_ it. Far more than his finely tuned, well-practiced skepticism should have ever allowed.

He’d meant what he’d said to Stiles the night before, and he believed that Stiles meant it too. At some point in the last few months, his life had wound up so tightly around this odd little family of three, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be entirely untangled again.

That had every right to be a horrifying notion, but Peter felt weirdly calm about it. Settled in his skin, even as Stiles and the twins kept burrowing deeper.

Wolves were pack animals, family oriented. Stronger, safer, and healthier in groups. That was just as true for werewolves. Just as true for him.

There was only one real worry nagging in the back of his mind. It was something Peter had spent the better part of the summer mulling over, in between day trips, barbecues, and regular sleepovers.

At first, it hadn’t been an issue: as much as he’d enjoyed Stiles’ company from the start, he hadn’t been terribly bothered by the possibility, the likelihood, that their easy rapport wouldn’t survive his Alphahood. His goal was important enough that Peter couldn’t afford to care about his own family’s reaction, let alone the opinion of some man he’d just met. A very attractive, engaging, interesting man, admittedly, but Peter was secure in his own priorities.

He’d thought he was, anyway. Now things were becoming more complicated.

The last of the stragglers finally cleared out, leaving Peter completely alone in his classroom. Noise filtered in from the hallway— footsteps and chatter, mostly— but his thoughts were much louder. Much harder to ignore.

He started to tidy up, pushing in chairs and reining in the general disorder a dozen five-year-olds could create in a few hours. He was more lenient this early in the school year, but not for too long; by the end of the week, his pups would be much better at putting their supplies away and cleaning up after themselves, within reason. It was kindergarten, so there was always going to be some amount of mess.

The pups would learn. Developing a careful balance of positive reinforcement and challenging expectations had served him well, over the years.

Tossing a few markers back in the appropriate basket, Peter found himself lingering at the room’s sole quartet of desks. All the chairs had name tags tucked in their pouches now. Scott had decorated his with a rainbow of swirls and squiggles, and drawn a happy face in the O of his name, coloured in sunny yellow with a big red mouth. Malia had drawn teeth in the valley of her M, and a dorsal fin on one side. Peter traced a finger over the clever blue shark, and didn’t bother to deny the helpless smile creeping across his face.

Seven months ago, this wouldn’t have been a problem.

Of course, seven months ago, he didn’t keep a toothbrush at somebody else’s house. Or a drawer of clothes. This was the first time in his entire dating history that this sort of shit had ever happened.

And it wasn’t just him insinuating himself into Stiles’ life. It worked both ways. He had organic juice boxes in his fridge at the apartment, popsicles in the freezer, and a couple boxes of animal crackers hanging around his pantry. He’d never even kept food in his house for Talia’s kids. Hobbes was freakishly enamoured with Scott, almost as much with Malia, and the feeling was entirely mutual even if copious cat cuddles always left the boy a bit wheezy.

Seven months. What was seven months, compared to almost two decades? Nineteen years since he discovered, unequivocally, that his sister would be chosen to inherit as Hale Alpha. That, thanks to the post-Anagnorisis culture of fear and his own backstabbing prick of a father, he didn’t have a shred of hope, wouldn't even have a _chance_ to prove himself.

What was seven damn months, compared to nearly twenty years of planning, of research and experimentation. Of groundwork, effort, sacrifice— shaping his entire life in pursuit of one goal.

Seven months was _nothing_. And yet, somehow, the thought of cutting Stiles and the twins from his life was more painful than it had any right to be. It was a panicky feeling, suffocating, like his entire chest was being constricted. It made his nail beds ache with the promise of claws, yearning to grab and grasp, and _keep_.

Standing in the middle of the playmats, Peter relaxed his shoulders and took a deep breath. Like it or not, he was in far too deep to fuck this up now. There needed to be a way for him to broach the topic, to explain himself to Stiles, and still keep all this. It wasn’t negotiable.

Stiles was brilliant, shrewd, and stubborn as hell. Those were just some of the reasons why Peter was so infatuated with the little shit in the first place. He adored Stiles’ beautiful brain, his quick wit and cleverness, but _fuck_ , it was certainly a pain in the ass at the minute. Peter was under precisely no illusions that this would be an easy sell.

_I need you to hear me out, sweetheart._

Peter was a firm believer in working smart, but he wasn’t averse to also working hard when a situation demanded it. Some things were worth the effort. Hell, spitefully proving naysayers wrong and achieving improbable goals was basically why he’d built his career.

This was going to be a challenge, but the alternatives were entirely unacceptable. Give up, live the rest of his life as a Beta, while burying his head in the sand and pretending the status quo wasn’t suicide? Or lose Stiles and the twins?

There wasn’t any other choice: he needed to get a plan together. He needed a strategy. And he needed it soon, before the opportunity to get out ahead of this slipped through his fingers. He’d waited too long already.

 

* * *

 

“Sweet dreams, peanuts,” Stiles said, easing the bedroom door closed with an audible creak. Through the phone, Peter could hear the twins calling out a final _Goodnight Dad, goodnight Uncle Peter_.

“Thanks,” Stiles breathed after a moment, and Peter guessed he’d crept down the hall a bit farther, possibly headed downstairs, or toward his own bedroom. It was only a little after eight o’clock. “You know, I’m trying not to get jealous that my kids think you do storytime better than their old man.”

“Certified professional,” Peter reminded him again. “Better step your game up, Stilinski.”

“Nah.” There was a dull thud, and a huff. Stiles had flopped onto the couch, or his bed. “Easier to just keep you around. Plus, you’re decorative too. Catch any other parents checking out that obscenely fine ass today, Mr. H?”

“A few, obviously. But no one else as shameless about it as you, sweetheart.”

“Damn right.” Stiles’ soft, breathy whine was too pained to be enticing. “Shit. I gotta do this all again tomorrow, don’t I?”

“Basically, yeah.” Stretched out on his own couch, Peter gave Hobbes a few strokes between the ears. The lazy bastard was curled up on Peter’s chest, purring, and flirting with disaster as his claws kneaded Peter’s t-shirt without catching the skin underneath. “But there’s only one _first day of kindergarten_. So, that’s over with. You survived relatively unscathed, I think.”

“You didn’t see me bawling over baby photos all morning. Jesus, I’m a mess.”

“You’re a dad.” Peter didn’t bother unpacking any of his own carefully compartmentalised feelings about the subject of fathers. It was safer to just stick to discussing Stiles, specifically. “A pretty great dad, in my considered opinion.”

“Shut up.” If the reply was suspiciously quick, and possibly a little wobbly, Peter wasn’t going to mention it. “I’m done with the weepy thing, got it all out of my system, so _shush_. I mean it.”

“See, there’s that serious dad-voice. Gets me all tingly—”

Stiles’ laugh sputtered, too loud, before he reined it in. “Oh god, _shut up_.”

 

* * *

 

Two weeks in, the school year was still going very well, and it was a special sort of pleasure to have the twins in his class. Peter was careful not to play favourites, but he couldn’t help the fact that the pair of them were so honestly, earnestly enthusiastic. They were adjusting to the new schedule and atmosphere compared to their small preschool, understanding the work so far, and making friends; he was proud of them.

So, obviously, it was the perfect time for Talia to fuck it all up.

> **From Tally:**
> 
> _Are you free Friday after school? I need you at the house for some pack business._
> 
> **To Tally:**
> 
> _Good morning to you too. A bit short notice. What sort of pack business?_
> 
> **From Tally:**
> 
> _The sort we should discuss in person._
> 
> **To Tally:**
> 
> _How dramatic. Should I bring anything? Cloak and dagger? Shovels and lye? Cheese platter?_
> 
> **From Tally:**
> 
> _Peter._
> 
> **To Tally:**
> 
> _Yes, fine. Unclench. I’ll be there by 4, with bells on._

* * *

 

Parking in front of the Hale homestead, Peter gave Alan’s squatty little Prius a narrow-eyed look. When _Pack business_ involved their emissary directly and openly, no euphemisms or secret tête-à-têtes with Talia, it usually meant big trouble. Probably a mess that Peter would be saddled with cleaning up.

Even worse, his mother’s Bentley and one of the Lowell Pack SUVs were lined up neatly beside Alan’s car. A perfect storm of pain in the ass. Peter could feel the headache brewing already.

“Fucking _delightful_.” He seriously considered driving away, but no. His curiosity was piqued now, as well as his familial responsibility.

There weren’t any Lowell Betas skulking around the foyer when he stepped into the house, but Róisín was curled up on one of the living room sofas, knitting. She looked up from her work when the front door opened, and favoured Peter with a pearly grin when he peered into the room.

“Got a present for you,” she said, instead of bothering with any actual greeting. Reaching into the big, lumpy carpet bag sagging beside her seat, she tossed something woolen his way. “For your man’s pups, really.”

Peter caught the bundle easily; it turned out to be a pair of small, child-sized beanies, knit to look like wolves. One grey, the other brown, the hats had pointed ears and black button eyes. They also carried a tang of musky incense, but that was slightly better than reeking of weed.

He turned the hats over in his hands, flicking one ear. “What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing. I just like making ‘em.” Róisín’s needles started clacking again, as she turned back to her project. “Alphas are holed up in the office. Your mam too. They’ll fetch us when they’re ready.”

Peter glanced at his watch, even though he’d checked the time before he got out of the car. Talia had told him to be there at three-thirty, insisted really, and it was already ten past four. Being fashionably and passive-aggressively late didn’t work nearly as well when his sister was jerking him around.

“Shouldn’t be much longer,” Róisín said. “Maybe. Could be ages. Eh, who knows, with that lot.” She didn’t sound remotely bothered, either way.

 

* * *

 

Stiles would be busy getting the kids home and dinner ready, so Peter resisted the urge to send a few miserable, whiny texts. And Bethany was still at work, so she’d be no help as a distraction either. Brendan and the pups seemed to be elsewhere; Peter couldn’t hear them in the house.

He ended up lazily browsing Pinterest for some fresh project ideas for his class, scrolling mindlessly without absorbing much at all. He could’ve been in the Stilinskis’ kitchen instead, stealing kisses and bites of ingredients while he helped Stiles throw a meal together.

Finally, he heard the study door open, and his mother’s voice filtering out past the sound-proofing.

“—suppose it’s not the absolute worst idea you’ve ever had. In the top five, definitely. But not the very worst. And I imagine the fallout is going to be a hell of a story to tell, for the survivors.”

“Bryony, darling, please—” Deucalion’s limp attempts at peacemaking were definitely more than Peter could stomach at the moment. Slipping his phone into his pocket, leaving the knitted hats on a side table, he got up, stalking out towards the approaching wolves. It seemed like a good time to interrupt.

“There’s my boy.” He didn’t exactly expect to be set upon the instant he showed his face, but Bryony was already closing the distance between them. He bent automatically when she reached for him, and her hands gripped firmly, cupping both sides of his jaw.

“Good luck, pup,” she said, with a serious furrow between her brows. Peter had no damn idea what was going on, but he didn’t like any of it. “I tried to talk some sense into your sister, but you can guess how well that went.”

“Mom, stop it.” There was a distinct rumble of _Alpha_ bolstering Talia’s warning tone, and from his vantage point a few inches away, only Peter saw the way Bryony rolled her eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving.” With the same flick of her wrist, Bryony released Peter, and utterly dismissed Talia. “I won’t stay and witness this train wreck. Peter, tell your Stiles you’re both taking me to dinner soon. I enjoy the mouth on that boy.” She flashed her teeth, knife-sharp. “Not the same way you do, obviously.”

“Of course, Mom.” Peter was aware his own smile leaned more toward a grimace, but he also knew his mother wouldn’t mind. “He’ll be thrilled.”

“Naturally. Tell him if he tries to weasel out, I’ll simply invite myself to his lovely home. I’m sure the sheriff would be quite an engaging host.” Without glancing back at the Alphas, Bryony gave Peter’s chest a final pat, and headed for the door. The heels of her cream coloured pumps cracked like gunshots with every step across the hardwood.

“My love,” Deucalion tried again, following her. He got a snarl that stopped him in his tracks, and door shut in his face for his trouble. “Damn it.”

He turned, raking a hand back through his hair. “Talia, you’ve clearly made up your mind, so you don’t need me for this, do you? I ought to go after her.”

“No, go on.” Talia waved him off. There was a weary tightness around her eyes that their mother was particularly adept at causing. “I appreciate your input, and you’re right. We’re done discussing things. I know what I’m going to do.”

“I’ll go fetch Trey and Cait,” Róisín said, carefully slipping around Peter and Talia, headed for the mudroom and likely the backyard beyond. Peter was fairly certain there weren’t any other Lowells inside the house, but he wasn’t surprised there were others on the property.

The purr of their mother’s Bentley was already driving away when Deucalion disappeared outside. Peter probably would have found the little domestic spat hilarious, if he wasn’t feeling so out of the loop. Bryony’s cryptic words had left him skittish, which might have been her intent. It was entirely possible she was simply fucking with him, playing on his ignorance of the situation to get his back up.

Or it might have been a legitimate, if uninformative, warning. She liked to watch him squirm, but his mother did suffer the occasional bout of weirdly benevolent, maternal sentiment. Very occasionally.

She was still the only living person who knew how he’d earned the blue in his eyes, and she’d never even threatened to use that against him. Peter didn’t entirely trust his mother— he wasn’t an idiot— but he had a certain amount of faith in her. An understanding, and a prickly sort of mutual fondness.

“Come on,” Talia said, once they were alone. “My office. We need to talk.”

“Fine.” Peter sighed, exaggerating his own annoyance to mask his real concerns as he followed where Talia led. “But I’m telling you right now, if I walk in there and there’s plastic sheeting on the floor, I won’t go down easy.”

“Now who’s being dramatic.”

“Me.” Peter held the office door, motioning Talia through. He didn’t relish the idea of having her at his back, at the minute. “Not my fault you decided to be so damned cagey today— puts me in a mood. Oh, hi Alan. My god, it’s been ages.”

“Peter.” Alan was perched in one of Talia’s guest chairs, wearing the same suit Peter had seen him in that morning at school. Still in the jacket and tie, he had a leather folder open in his lap, but he snapped it shut before Peter could get a look at the paperwork inside.

Something wasn’t right. Alan was terminally stoic, most of the time, but there was an extra layer of sombre in his expression. A certain severity that put Peter’s hackles up immediately.

“Get in here,” Talia said, settling behind her oddly neat desk. The worst of the heaps of papers had been moved, shifted into stacks along the sides of the room. “Close the door.”

Hovering just inside the doorway of his sister’s office, Peter was overwhelmed by a sudden rush of dread. Faced with Talia’s frown, and Alan’s stony stare, he couldn’t remember ever feeling more like a cornered beast.

His Alpha. Their emissary. Peter’s sister, and his boss. The atmosphere in the room was as dour as a tomb. Or a trial.

They knew. They’d figured it out.

 _Fuck_.

Every muscle in Peter’s body tensed at once, even as he froze in place. This was some kind of intervention, if he was lucky. Discipline, if he wasn’t. Either way, Peter was going to have to leave town. They wouldn’t let him keep teaching, not his own class. His pups. They’d try to stop him, to undo all his work, and he couldn’t stop now. Not when he could feel the power simmering, pulsing, just under the surface. Not when he was so damn close.

If he stayed, if he was even allowed to stay, they’d have him on a short leash. Tie his hands, watch his every move. But leaving town meant leaving Stiles, leaving the twins, Bethany… leaving _everyone_.

Oh shit, they’d _tell_ Stiles. Tell him what Peter was doing, what he was planning, or at least however much of it they’d managed to figure out. They’d drag it all out into the open, ignoring subtlety for the sake of sensationalism— frame everything in the worst possible way, and make Peter look like a liar. A manipulative bastard. Like the greedy, domineering embodiment of Alpha that Stiles resented so much.

In one broad stroke, they would paint Peter as the villain. And, even if he stayed, he’d lose everything anyway.

It took every ounce of self-control Peter had at his disposal to keep his reaction as firmly contained as possible, his heartbeat steady, and his panic suppressed. They hadn’t shown their hand yet. Neither could he.

He reached back, slowly, and tested the knob before he pulled the door shut. It wasn’t locked. He let it click shut.

He didn’t consider the possibility of mountain ash until after he’d closed the door, and nearly cursed out loud. But he didn’t notice any suspicious lines of black dust along the floor, and he’d seen Alan only a few hours ago, at work. Possibly not enough time to install anything harder to spot than powder. Hopefully not.

He thought about testing the door again, but that would be too obvious. Instead, he counted his own breaths, focusing on their timing. The bulk of his attention stayed fixed on Alan.

Talia was the bigger physical threat— she was an Alpha, with all the strength and speed that meant, and the ability to inflict lasting injury— but Peter was confident he could hold his own, if it came to an actual fight between them. At the very least, he could avoid the worst of his sister’s claws long enough to get the hell away, assuming his exit was clear.

If Peter wasn’t careful, however, if he let his guard down, Alan could have him caged where he stood, helpless, with nothing more than a handful of ash and a thought.

 _Fucking druids_.

“This is all very ominous,” Peter said, indicating the room at large with a wave of his hand. He sounded perfectly blithe, bored, but Talia’s eyes still narrowed at him.

“Is it?” It was an oddly dismayed question. Peter didn’t expect Talia’s serious, stiffened posture to crack, but she slumped in her chair. He didn’t relax, even as she dropped her forehead into her own palm. “Shit. I was going for welcoming. Even _non-threatening_ would’ve been good enough. Damn it. What’s ominous about it? You think it might be better if I don’t sit behind the desk?”

“We’re already running behind schedule,” Alan said, with his hands folded on his lap.

“Of course we are.” Talia rubbed the bridge of her nose, rhythmically smoothing out the line between her brows. “My own fault for inviting Mom. Okay, never mind. We’re doing this, as is. Peter?”

Apparently gathering her composure, Talia sat up straight again, and looked him square in the eye. Peter said nothing in the face of her determined expression, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I want you to try and keep an open mind,” she said carefully, but genuinely. This was his sister talking, not Alpha Hale. Or, that was what she wanted him to believe. “We wanted to meet with you today, to tell you’re getting a new student.”

Peter blinked, but didn’t otherwise react. It took him a beat too long to find his voice again.

“A new student?” A shiver of relief poured down his spine like ice water, and the room swam around him for a dangerous, unsteady moment. He tamped it all down viciously, staying as neutral and normal as possible. He’d managed it when he thought the jig was up; he could stay calm now.

Paranoia was healthy, to a point. But it was possible he’d leapt to the worst possible conclusions a bit quickly, this time.

They didn’t know anything. He was still in the clear.

All this worrying about Stiles had him on edge. He’d overreacted, and come too damn close to giving himself away in the process. Or giving himself a stroke. His sister wasn’t stupid or unobservant, and she knew too many of his tells, like he knew hers. If Talia hadn’t been so distracted by whatever the hell this was, Peter doubted he would have gotten away with that fumble.

“Her name is Allison,” Alan said, oblivious to both Peter’s relief and his agitation. “She won’t be transferring. Her parents have been travelling, and she hasn’t actually started school yet. But I’ve been assured she’s had sufficient tutoring at home to make the transition fairly straightforward, academically speaking. Socially, there may be some minor issues.”

“I see.” Peter crossed his arms, forcing himself to calm down by degrees. Things might not be the unmitigated shitstorm he’d feared, but something about this situation, about his mother’s reaction and the tenor of the meeting, was still making him uneasy. “There’s something you two aren’t telling me. You might want to cut to the chase, since we’re apparently _behind schedule_.”

“The girl is human,” Talia said. “Her mother is an Omega, petitioning to live in Hale territory. We still have that meeting to deal with, right after this one.”

Details were starting to make more sense now; the clarity made it easier for Peter to breathe again. Bryony had never been as lenient about Omegas as Talia tended to be, so it wasn’t surprising she’d decided to kick up a fuss about it. And negotiations about Omegas weren’t widely advertised outside private Pack business. Technically, when it came to expelling Omegas from a territory, or outright refusing them entry, there wasn’t anything an Alpha could legally do. But there were some old traditions, a handful of werewolf laws, still actively practiced within their communities.

It wasn’t remotely legal in human terms, but it was understood that an established Pack could make life very difficult for any Omega encroaching into their territory without permission.

“Ah. So, I’m also here to look suitably stern and menacing,” Peter said, grateful he could finally put the entire picture together. “While you discuss the rules with our shiny new Omega. You could’ve just said so.”

Talia shook her head. “There’s more to it than that—”

“Talia, I’m sorry,” Alan said, adjusting his cuff back over his watch. “We’re out of time. The Bergiers are always very punctual.”

“ _Shit_.” Talia’s palm thudded against the desktop, hard enough to shake her monitors and rattle her pens in their mug. “Peter, listen. Please, for the love of god, just trust me and keep an open mind. If this doesn’t work out, we can’t be the side who screws it up, okay?”

Alan got to his feet, just as the low, unobtrusive chime of the doorbell echoed through the little speaker in the corner of the ceiling. “I’ll go greet them. We’ll be right in.”

Peter turned to his sister, dropping to sotto voce as Alan’s exit, and the door left ajar behind him, broke the room’s soundproofing. “Okay, what the hell?”

“The Bergiers,” Talia murmured meaningfully, as if it was a name he should know. “Victoria and Chris Bergier, and their daughter.”

 _Victoria and Chris_. Not uncommon names, but they carried a certain weight when mentioned together. A particular association, and not a pleasant one. It wasn’t a far stretch for Peter to put two and two together, now that he’d been granted enough information.

“Fucking _Argents_?” He mouthed the words almost silently, staring incredulously at his sister. He could hear Alan at the front door, convivial and calm, and two other voices he didn’t immediately recognize. “Is this a joke?”

“Not at all.” Watching Talia slide under the unruffled mask of Alpha Hale had rarely been so frustrating. She motioned for him to take his usual place for meetings like this, standing at her shoulder. “It’s an olive branch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question: do you enjoy Stalion fic? If so, I highly recommend heading over to the Deucalion/Stiles tag for some Stalion Week goodness. I'm incredibly excited to dive into all the new stories.
> 
> Shamelessly, I mention my own contribution. Stalion with WereRaven!Stiles: [**Oh, This Ravenous Love**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6054097/chapters/13879420).


	32. Not Quite Swords to Ploughshares

In moments like these, Peter had to marvel at the relationship he had with his sister.

Talia had been a significant presence in his life since birth, grown up with him, only three years apart. Closer to his age than Bethany, who’d been nearly eight when he came squalling into the world. It could have been a dynamic easily reflected in Talia’s three children, but history hadn’t repeated itself with this newest generation of Hales; their personalities weren’t nearly the same. There were some parallels, but Laura wasn’t Beth, Derek certainly wasn’t the spitting image of his mother at that age, and Cora was a bit more feral than Peter had ever been permitted to be.

The point was, both of Peter’s sisters knew him very well— too well for comfort, a lot of the time.

Talia knew the sort of man he was, and yet somehow she trusted him implicitly. Depending on the day, that was a blessing and a curse.

Maybe it was luck, that Talia’s trust had never been poisoned beyond salvage. Peter didn’t pretend to understand it. He simply took advantage of it when necessary, and dealt with situations like this when they cropped up.

She’d known exactly what she was doing, when she decided to keep him in the dark about this absolutely idiotic idea. If she’d told him earlier, he would have had the chance to argue all the very rational, very pressing reasons why this simply couldn’t happen. He could have talked her into the ground, if he needed to. There certainly wasn’t any shortage of arguments he could make against this utter _shitshow_.

Hell, if worse came to worst, he could have figured out a way to sabotage this catastrophe before it ever had the chance to grow teeth.

Which is exactly why she hadn’t said a word until now. Because she knew, she _trusted_ , that once he was roped in like this, Peter would tow the line just enough to get through this meeting. He wouldn’t make a scene, or question her authority as Alpha, in front of outsiders. Especially not these outsiders.

He’d take a breath, swallow back the bile, and play his role as loyal enforcer. His sister’s right hand. To do otherwise would risk making the Pack look weak, unstable, and give the goddamn Argents too much ammunition.

Talia knew him, and she’d fucking played him. Peter was seething, and grudgingly impressed.

The back of his neck prickled, metaphorical hackles rising, as Alan ushered their guests into Talia’s office. Peter had never had the displeasure of meeting either Victoria or Chris Argent, but he’d compiled some information about each of them over the years. A precautionary investigation of probable threats, which was all part of his job as Talia’s chief enforcer. _Know yourself, know your enemy_.

Peter kept files on every Hunter family still in unofficial operation, updated as regularly as possible. As far as he knew, Victoria and Chris Argent had disappeared from public life, and basically dropped off the face of the earth, about five years ago. After a particularly unfortunate incident with a small, reclusive Pack, somewhere in Arizona.

He’d kept an ear to the ground for a while afterward— the fallout from the Arizona incident had been ugly, and bad blood between wolves and hunters could still end with more blood spilled, even post-Anagnorisis. Argents hadn’t operated near Beacon County in years, but if trouble was brewing, Peter had every intention of being prepared.

But nothing had ever come of it. There had been a number of bodies on either side, none of them reported to human authorities, but no retaliation. The matter, such as it was, had apparently been closed. To be honest, Peter had assumed Victoria and Chris Argent were among the casualties, though he’d never been able to confirm it.

They looked awfully corporeal for a pair of ghosts.

His dossiers on the Argents included photos, of course, but the reality was still somewhat jarring. Chris Argent wasn’t a tall man, but he carried himself with clear purpose and sureness. Victoria Argent was probably the same height as her husband, but unapologetically taller in her heels, and just as iron-spined. Both had startlingly pale, piercing eyes.

“Victoria,” Talia said, with a small, benevolent smile firmly in place. Peter didn’t miss the way Victoria Argent’s expression tightened, ever so slightly, at the sound of her name. “Chris. Welcome. Please, come in. Have a seat.”

There were enough chairs for everyone, but Peter would stand as long as Talia was behind her desk. He could feel Chris Argent sizing him up, and wondered if the man would refuse a seat, to mirror the implied position of guard. After a noticeable pause, Chris sank into a chair beside his wife.

“You know Alan already,” Talia said, while the Argents settled. “But we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m Talia Hale, and this is my brother, Peter Hale.”

When the Argents’ attention flickered over to him, Peter’s smile wasn’t nearly as benign as his sister’s. Still ostensibly polite, but he wasn’t about to simper and scrape for these people. Before he could offer a single word, Talia was speaking again.

“Thank you both for agreeing to come today.” Dear lord, she sounded so sincere. It was physically painful. “I appreciate the delicacy of your situation, and the trust you’ve extended here.”

If Talia was going to start talking about trust, Peter had a few comments of his own to make. He _appreciated_ the fact that his nieces and nephew had obviously been cleared out before their mother invited the hunters around for coffee and smalltalk. He would have _appreciated_ it a hell of a lot more if Talia had given him the chance to set up anything remotely approaching proper security. Like, for instance, two dozen or so Hale Betas waiting in the wings.

Holy hell, she’d let goddamn Argents drive up to their front door, entirely unmonitored. Unrestricted.

“You invited us into your home, Alpha Hale.” Victoria Argent’s voice was measured, steady as a rock, giving absolutely nothing away. Her heartbeat was the same. “Chris and I aren’t the only ones extending trust, in these circumstances.”

“Thank you for seeing us,” Chris added, somewhat less cooly collected than his wife. His knuckles were whitened, hands laced together tightly between his knees, but that was the only tell Peter could easily spot. “And for considering our petition. We can’t… With Allison starting school, we can’t keep running.”

Victoria reached over, curling long fingers around her husband’s forearm. Her nail polish was the colour of arterial blood, vivid against the bland sage green of his cotton button-down.

“For our daughter,” she said, gaze still fixed on Talia. “We need somewhere she can grow up, with stability and safety. Somewhere she can settle, and makes friends. She deserves that.”

Talia didn’t seem remotely surprised by the direction this conversation had gone, and neither did Alan— though, admittedly, Alan had a remarkable pokerface. Peter added another item to his quickly expanding list of reasons why he was pissed off with his sister. There were few things he hated more than being left in the dark, and there was obviously a story here.

Peter half-listened as Talia spewed out more chatter and saccharine platitudes, the Argents responded, and Alan watched the whole thing unfold. There were clues to put together, more important than all this cautious beating around the bush before someone got to an actual point.

Victoria and Chris Argent. Now Victoria and Chris _Bergier_. A new surname, distancing themselves from centuries of history. Not Victoria’s maiden name, either— she’d been Victoria Stewart before she married into the Argent clan, from a small, but well-established family of hunters on the East Coast, mostly New York state.

Taking on a brand new name, when old hunter dynasties put so much emphasis on history and lineage, presumably meant cutting ties with both their families. And the pair of them, with a young daughter, evidently _on the run_. For quite some time, if Peter had to guess.

Probably about five years.

Because, of course, there was that final little detail: Victoria Bergier was, scandalously, a _werewolf_.

This was absolutely delicious. Still a fucking train wreck, as Bryony had warned him, but also the best entertainment he’d had in ages. Peter could taste the hypocrisy, and it was so damn sweet.

Victoria Argent— the bright, young, up-and-coming Argent matriarch, married to Gerard Argent’s only son— had been bitten by a werewolf and hadn’t put a bullet in her own brain after the fact. She’d broken their venerated _Code_ , become the very monster she’d hunted, and now here she was: scratching at the Hales’ doorstep, looking to be let in out of the cold.

“—free to continue your business,” Talia was saying. She’d been outlining the standard rules of conduct expected from Omegas living in Beacon County, but now things were getting more specific. “But I have to ask for reassurance, in good faith, that you won’t knowingly sell weapons to any radical, anti-shifter groups. Not as long as you’re living in Hale territory.”

“There isn’t a hunter family on this continent who’d buy guns from us, Alpha Hale.” Chris shook his head, with a sardonic twist to his mouth. “They wouldn’t touch a single piece, not a bullet. Not even if we were giving them away.”

“We’ve been blacklisted,” Victoria said. “Thoroughly. Our primary market now is law enforcement, some private security firms. Speciality equipment, consultation, and training for altercations with werewolves, with an emphasis on less lethal options and de-escalation.”

Subduing werewolves with less lethal options. How very _admirable_. Practically saintlike.

Peter couldn’t have stifled his scoff if he tried, and he didn’t try at all. Neither Talia nor Alan batted an eyelash, probably hoping that ignoring the mild outburst would be their best option, but the Argents both looked over at the sound. For a split second, the barest shimmer of gold burned in Victoria’s eyes, there and gone almost too quickly to register. Peter was careful not to respond in kind. Most people didn’t know what the cold blue of his eyes meant; the Argents wouldn’t be so ignorant.

He was a bit shocked that Victoria Argent’s eyes glowed gold, but he supposed it wasn’t impossible for a hunter matriarch to keep her hands technically clean. Not when her husband was conditioned to act as her weapon.

“Well, with that settled,” Talia said. “There’s only one more detail, before I can formally welcome you into Hale territory. Your daughter.”

The Argents stiffened in their seats, while Alan finally opened his folder again, shuffling papers and offering them a familiar blue brochure. Talia reached for her wireless mouse, waking the computer screens to display Fáelán’s website, angled so their guests could see.

“We’ve already discussed her attendance at Fáelán,” Alan said, retracting the brochure when neither Argent made a move to take it.

“And we’ve already refused,” Victoria countered, with just a suggestion of sharpness.

“As much as we appreciate the offer,” Chris said. “Private school isn’t necessary. We’re considering a few public elementary schools in the area.”

“And I have no doubt they’re excellent schools.” Talia leaned in, hands folded on the desk. “But this matter isn’t negotiable.”

“Excuse me?” This time, there wasn’t any doubt, or any subtlety. Gold flared bright and fiery in Victoria’s eyes, and stayed there. “You will not tell us how to raise our daughter—”

“No, I won’t.” There was a rumble in Talia’s voice, rolling in like distant thunder and fading out again in nearly the same breath. “But I also won’t extend an offer of protection to your family, if you don’t allow me to put necessary precautions in place. Fáelán is the only school in the county with the security to make me comfortable guaranteeing Allison’s safety.”

“Guarantee her safety,” Chris said, laying a hand on top of his wife’s, where her fingers were dimpling the fabric of his shirt. No claws yet; Peter was watching closely. “Or your influence, Alpha Hale? Or are you saying you’re incapable of keeping the rest of your territory secured?”

“Careful, Argent,” Peter cautioned lightly. The only reason he didn’t take a step forward was Talia’s arm, suddenly held out in front of him. Quelling.

“I can promise you, Mr. Bergier,” she said, emphasizing the name. When she turned her head, Peter could see nothing but deep brown in her gaze. Not a single spark of crimson. “I don’t make a habit of brainwashing children. And my territory is secure, as you know, because I’m appropriately diligent about matters like this. Your daughter is a special case, and special measures are required.”

“Talia sits on the Board of Directors of Fáelán,” Alan said. “But she isn’t involved in its day-to-day operations. The academy receives generous contributions from the Hale family, educates and employs several Hale Pack members, but still maintains significant, legally binding autonomy.”

“Autonomy.” The strong angle of Victoria’s chin jutted, challenging. “On paper. But in reality?”

“We all know there aren’t any assurances I can offer, that you’d accept,” Talia said. “The reality of the situation is this: Allison is Gerard Argent’s granddaughter. And the legacy that man left behind him, the bad blood his actions perpetuated in this community, haven’t entirely faded from people’s memories. Allison doesn’t carry the name, and she shouldn’t shoulder any of the blame, but the history exists. Putting her in another school in Beacon County is not a risk I’m willing to take, for her sake and the sake of my Pack. Any agreement between your family and my Pack, any offer of Hale protection, is contingent on her attendance at Fáelán.”

At the mention of his father’s name, Chris Argent’s face spasmed, and Peter felt the barest twinge of something like empathy. James Hale was an asshole, but at least he wasn’t a sadistic, homicidal fanatic, convicted of multiple murders, and currently serving several consecutive life sentences.

Shitty examples like that simply served to highlight Stiles’ sterling approach to fatherhood. It was profoundly impressive, and very, very attractive.

“This offer doesn’t have an expiration date.” Picking up another folder, Talia slid it across her desk, presenting it to the Argents. “I had our lawyers draw up a contract, outlining the support and protection Hale Pack is willing to provide, and the requirements in return. It’s becoming standard practice, for these types of agreements. Difficult to enforce in a human court, but if you brought it before a tribunal of Alphas, they’d honour the letter of it. Take it; read it over. Take all the time you need. Anything you’d like to discuss or dispute, I’m certainly open to that.”

“Anything except Allison,” Chris said, without reaching for the contract.

Talia nodded. “Your daughter, and your business clientele. On those points, I’m staying firm.”

Victoria rose to stand, abruptly enough to make Peter tense. If his theory about her bite was correct, he assumed she’d been living as a werewolf for nearly five years. Considering that she was still alive, still married to a trained hunter, she must have learned a decent measure of control by now. Probably in the hardest possible ways, alone, through sheer stubbornness and willpower. It was doubtful she’d sought help from any Pack before.

Omegas could be unpredictable. Their impulses and instincts were rawer, less constrained, without the stability of a Pack to help centre them. Keeping themselves in check was possible with effort, but naturally more challenging.

Peter could hardly imagine the weight of that loneliness, but then, stable Omegas tended to gravitate toward pseudo-pack structures. Integrating into tightly-knit social circles, fostering connections. Werewolves were pack animals; it was as intrinsic to their nature as the pull of the moon.

Victoria Argent, or _Bergier_ , still had her little family around her. It was enough, apparently, to keep her anchored.

Rather like Malia, really.

“Thank you for your time, Alpha Hale,” Victoria said, cutting a sharp glance toward her seated husband. “Chris?”

“Vic, wait…”

“Please,” Alan said. “Victoria. There’s a reason you came to Beacon Hills. You could have approached a dozen other Alphas, chosen a hundred places with far fewer reasons to remember the Argent name, but you came here, to Talia. Why?”

“Because,” Chris said, after it became crystal clear that Victoria had no intention of dignifying the question with a response. “More than anything, Talia Hale’s reputation precedes her. Vic, come on. We need to at least consider this, for Allison.”

Victoria’s hands stretched where they hung at her sides, fingers splaying wide, before slowly curling into fists. Her nails, as far as Peter could see, remained perfectly manicured and blunt.

The silence was only a moment or two, but it stretched for ages.

“Alright,” she said, lowering back into her seat with swiftly gathered poise. As though she hadn’t been two seconds away from storming out. “I want to see a detailed outline of the curriculum. And I want to meet with potential teachers.”

Well, wasn’t that convenient. As thrilling as this all was, Peter had been getting increasingly tired of keeping his mouth shut anyway.

“You’re in luck, Mr. and Mrs. Bergier.” He lifted one hand, twiddling a wave. “Hello, I’m Mr. Hale, kindergarten teacher. Fully accredited, consistently outstanding performance reviews, and ten years experience. Give me an address, and I’ll email you a copy of this year’s syllabus. And my CV.”

This time, there was no stopping Victoria’s dramatic exit. But Chris did grab the contract, before following on his wife’s heels.

 

* * *

 

> **To Beans:**
> 
> _Did you know I might be getting a new student, sister dear?_
> 
> **From Beans:**
> 
> _Sister dear. Oh my. Am I in trouble, brother mine?_
> 
> **To Beans:**
> 
> _That very much depends on whether or not you were keeping me in the dark about this too._
> 
> **From Beans:**
> 
> _I didn’t think I was “keeping you in the dark” you absolute drama queen. It’s one more kid, and you love even numbers. Pathologically._
> 
> **To Beans:**
> 
> _God damn it Beth. Did you know about this shit?_
> 
> **From Beans:**
> 
> _Yes? Talia asked me to write up the omega contract. Like usual._
> 
> _Repeat, are you actually upset with me?_
> 
> **To Beans:**
> 
> _Oh of course not. Why would I possibly be upset? Talia just blindsided me with fucking Argents. No big deal._
> 
> **From Beans:**
> 
> _What?_
> 
> _Argents? What the hell are you talking about?? Contract was for Bergiers._
> 
> **To Beans:**
> 
> _I see she didn’t see fit to tell you either. Bergier is an alias._
> 
> _Tal invited fucking Argents to our front door. Letting them move into the territory._
> 
> **From Beans:**
> 
> _Jesus are you joking?_
> 
> **To Beans:**
> 
> _I wish. I tried to talk some sense into her, so did mom, but she’s really digging her heels in. Apparently sanity is taking a holiday and we’re getting new neighbours._
> 
> **From Beans:**
> 
> _Who the hell is it? Which ones?_
> 
> _I’m calling you._
> 
>  

* * *

 

“I’m reserving judgement,” Bethany said, the moment the call connected. Peter could hear shuffling papers on the other end of the phone. “On whether Tal’s gone completely bananas, until I get a better picture of what the fuck is going on. Okay, I’ve got a copy of contract here. _Marc and Olivia Bergier_ , and a daughter, Allison.”

Peter stepped outside and shut the door, giving himself some privacy on the Stilinskis’ back deck. John was out with Melissa for the night, and Stiles was cuddled on the couch with the twins. “Middle names? Initials?”

“Marc C.” More shuffling. “And Olivia V.”

“C and V.” Peter had to admit, the couple had been clever about things. They’d left an excuse to answer to their middle names in person, if they chose to do so, or even happened to slip up, but very few documents required anything more than middle initials. A relatively clean paper trail, significantly reducing the risk of catching any unwanted attention. “Chris and Victoria Argent.”

“Seriously? I thought they were dead.” Bethany made a considering sound: a low hum, rising sharply to surprise at the end. “Victoria Argent is a werewolf?”

“Evidently.” Leaning against the railing, Peter peered out at the shadowy backyard. The night air was sticky warm, but not as punishing as August had been. “Used to be such an exclusive club. Seems like they’re letting anybody in these days.”

“Holy shit,” Bethany said, and Peter could easily imagine the stunned expression that accompanied her breathy exhale. “I’ve got to talk to Tal. Conference call?”

“I’ll pass.” Peter had buttery fingertips from the bowl of popcorn he’d been sharing with Stiles, salt gritty under his nails, and no desire to chase away the bit of relaxation he’d been slowly gaining back since he’d left the Hale homestead and arrived here. He wasn’t going to upset the twins with this nonsense, if he could help it. “Talia and I already had long, long chat about it this afternoon, after she ambushed me into meeting the happy couple, in the flesh. I’m pretty much done beating my head against that particular wall. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

Highly doubtful, but Bethany could be quite persuasive, and more importantly, she could usually keep her cool when family discussions grew heated. Peter sometimes struggled with the latter, especially when arguing with his middle sister.

Even Beth’s sang-froid, her enviable ability to diffuse rather than give into the urge to escalate, probably wouldn’t be enough in this instance. Not much of a chance, pitted against Talia’s hellish determination when she had an _important cause_ to rally behind. Like it or not, she’d apparently decided that adopting wayward Argents was her new pet project.

After saying his goodbyes to Bethany, Peter slipped into the house, and back to the dim living room. Stiles was on the couch, positioned somewhat awkwardly without Peter to slouch against; his face was lit by the pale glow of his cell phone screen. The twins were sprawled on the carpet in front of the bright television, eyes closed and breathing slow and even. The movie was still playing, but turned down so low it was nearly inaudible, even to Peter’s ears.

Without a word, Stiles sat up a little, letting Peter wedge easily into his usual spot. They fit together snugly, with Peter sitting in the corner of the couch, and Stiles tucked under his arm, lying against his ribs.

“Everything okay?” Stiles murmured, sounding a bit drowsy himself. The glare of his phone vanished, leaving them with just the television and one lamp.

“Mmhm.” Peter bent down enough to kiss Stiles’ forehead, then stayed there, nuzzling. Stiles was weeks overdue for a haircut. Shaggy. Not especially stylish, but nice to get a good grip, Peter had discovered. “Beth says hi.”

“S’nice. Think the peanuts zonked out. Should put ‘em to bed soon.” Stiles’ hand slid along Peter’s thigh. Strong, elegant fingers curled over his knee. “You staying over tonight?”

A happy ending, after such a frustrating day, sounded like a damn fine idea.

“I could be persuaded,” Peter said, smiling against Stiles’ brow.

 

* * *

 

**From Beth <bethanymhale@gmail.com>**

**Subject: Our new neighbours**

> _I was going to text but it’s ass o’clock and you’re probably asleep or busy with the boytoy. Let it never be said that your favourite sister is a cockblock._
> 
> _I had a talk with Talia. You’re going to hate me. But now that we discussed it, I’m not sure this is such a terrible idea._
> 
> _Those two had to be pretty damn desperate to come here. They’ve been on the run for years. Settling in BH is probably going to put them on radar again. But Tal’s offering them security, and you know she’s not going to demand anything ridiculous in return. It’s a bigger risk for them than it is for us, and it’s all for the sake of their kid. That little girl doesn’t deserve to suffer because the rest of her family are bigoted psychos._
> 
> _Plus hey, it’ll piss mom off. Bonus._
> 
> _I don’t know. It’s late, I’m tired and I had wine after I hung up from Tal. Mental lubricant to deal with the level of weirdness in this situation. I’ve been going over and over this shit trying to see all the angles. I just think maybe it’s not as crazy as it seemed. Or maybe it is completely crazy and we should do it anyway, because it’s the right thing. That might be the wine talking. I don’t know._
> 
> _But there’s one thing I know for absolutely sure. You’re going to be good to that little girl if she ends up in your class. My little brother is a hell of a teacher. A good man and a big softie._
> 
> _I love you Repeat xx_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be slower replying to comments than usual, because RL is still bananas. But please know, I appreciate every bit of feedback. It fuels this sinister fluffy machine, and makes my day brighter. Thank you so much.


	33. Mr. Hale is a Big Meanie

Contrary to his freak-outs, which were slowly lessening as the weeks went by without major incident, Stiles actually survived September. More importantly, the peanuts survived it too. They thrived in kindergarten, which wasn’t really that surprising. His kids were smart little cookies. Way less neurotic than their old man, for which Stiles could only be grateful.

According to his dad, Stiles had been one of those kids who cried every day when he started kindergarten. Big, wet eyes and wobbly lips whenever his mom dropped him off at Grove Street Elementary, clinging to her hands and the hem of her shirt.

Stiles didn’t have really clear memories of that, just a general recollection of unease. Although he vividly remembered the first day Danny sat down beside him on the playground, pulled a crinkly pack of Sno Balls out of his windbreaker, and offered Stiles one of the bright pink cakes.

Grove Street was obviously all-human— no integrated schools at all, back then— and Stiles’ mom was a shifter, which was weird enough to make him a pariah to some other kids. Or, more likely, to their parents. Plus, Stiles was a hyper little shit, and just plain weird. Socially awkward. Mouthy, and more than a little morbid, even before his mom died and the world got that much darker.

Danny was eminently charming, even as a five-year-old, and way too cute with those dimples and thousand-watt smile. But he wore a chest brace, always corrected their teacher’s pronunciation of his last name, and his lunches were weird and smelly sometimes— lomi-lomi salmon and poke, on the days he didn’t bring ham and cheese sandwiches.

Gravitating together into their own little duo, then later their own little pack of outcasts wasn’t terribly surprising, in hindsight.

The finer details of Stiles’ stint in kindergarten were a bit of a blur, to be honest. Of course there were a couple unpleasant incidents of being circled and teased by older, bigger kids. Having his backpack thrown in dumpsters or over fences and told to _go fetch_ while the bullies barked and howled. Stupid, ignorant stuff he tried, and often failed, to hide from his mom and dad, out of some misplaced instinct to protect his parents.

Anyway, that was over twenty years ago, and the memory of sharing that snack cake was still brighter than the lingering hurts.

Stiles’ kids were coming home from school, happy and chatty. Making friends and having fun. And they were going to school together, both of them in the same class.

If Stiles sometimes got a little choked up about the whole thing, about how far things had come even if there was a long way still to go, he figured that was okay. He imagined his mom would’ve been getting pretty damn misty about it too.

 

* * *

 

> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Ok who is Ally and why is my son waxing lyrical abt her “princess hair”??_
> 
> _Also will u stop at the store on ur way over? We need milk._
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Oh god. You remember I mentioned getting a new student last week? That’s Ally._
> 
> _And yes I’ll stop. Need anything else? How’s the egg and bread situation?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Shit yeah I forgot u made french toast yesterday. Grab a dozen eggs and two loaves plz <3_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Yes dear._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Thx hunny bunny_
> 
> _Back to my original line of questioning. Does Scotty have a crush?_
> 
> _There are serious googoo eyes happening and it’s cute but weird_
> 
> _Babe this is normal right??? I mean he’s only 5_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen it happen. But I’m not sure it’s actually a crush. Scott’s a very socially intelligent and kind hearted boy, and Ally is the new kid._
> 
> _He invites her into their group during play, and they share snacks. I think he’s just being friendly._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Yeah I guess_
> 
> _My dad senses r tingling tho_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _It reminds me of the way Scott cozies up to Derek. Nothing too serious. The novelty will pass, I’m sure._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Yeeeahhhhh Scotty loves Derek. Tbh I’m not gonna be remotely surprised if either of my kids end up getting hitched to a hale. Animal magnetism remember?_
> 
> _But I never spent a whole car ride getting serenaded w purple prose extolling the beauty of Derek’s glossy locks either_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Jesus. Tell me you’re joking._
> 
> _About the serenade part. The animal magnetism is obvious._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _No joke. Lucky it wasn’t a long drive cuz good god all that sugar was deadly. I could feel the diabetes coming on_
> 
> _I thought u were sappy. Cujo got nothing on my boy_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I prefer “romantic” but if I’m sappy, it’s only because you inspire me, baby._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Omg I’m gonna gag_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _You love it. You’re blushing right now. I bet you can feel it heating up your neck and over your cheeks._
> 
> _You’re so gorgeous when you flush pink for me. Your scent turns so sweet with just a hint of something deeper. Darker, like burnt sugar. It’s delicious. I’ve got a craving just thinking about it._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Jfc somebody’s in a mood_
> 
> _Finish up whatever the hell ur doing and get the fuck over here_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Like I said. You inspire me._
> 
> _Milk, bread, eggs. I’ll be there in an hour_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Pick up some of that chocolate sundae sauce too. After the kids go to bed I’ll show u sweet and delicious_
> 
> _Unless u don’t wanna indulge ur sweet tooth on a school night Mr hale_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’ll be there in 30_

* * *

 

When Stiles dropped his kids off at school, getting a pair of smooches at the car window before they dashed off to meet up with their friends, it felt like a normal Wednesday. He went to work, at the bookstore, like normal. His shift didn’t end ‘til four, and Melissa had offered to get the peanuts after school. As it turned out, Lydia’s mom was helping out too, picking up Isaac— an impromptu Nana Day for Team Stilinski.

Stiles spent his shift tending to customers, dealing with stock and returns, and tacking up a few more Halloween decorations around Shelf Indulgence. It was already the middle of October, but fuck it, there was no such thing as too much spooky kitsch.

He didn’t catch the first clue that something was wrong until he got home.

On the days he got home later than the twins, it was pretty much standard for Stiles to gain a pair of pants barnacles the minute he walked in the door. If he was lucky, he’d get his shoes off first, but typically not. Waddling through the house with one kid wrapped around each leg while they all said their hellos was business as usual; Stiles had no intention of convincing them to stop the habit until they got literally too heavy for him to drag from the front door to the couch. Even then, he was probably going to be stubborn about it. It was tradition, at this point, and he was never going to take his kids’ desire to hug him for granted.

On rare occasions, the kids were too distracted to pounce on him when he arrived. The lack of peanut snuggles tonight wasn’t totally unexpected. Quality time with Mel was a reasonable excuse for leaving their dad hanging.

Stiles got his sneakers off, then padded off toward the low burble of music playing. The smell didn’t hit him until he stepped into the kitchen— he’d asked Mel to heat up one of the homemade casseroles he kept stocked in the freezer— but other than dinner cooking and the radio on low, there weren’t any signs of life.

Weird. Weird and somewhat worrying, honestly. There was a strange bubble of tension in the air, as if the house was holding its breath.

Nobody in the living room, either, or in the backyard when he peeked outside. The full moon was tomorrow night; if this was going to be a tough month, they were within the tantrum danger zone. Stiles ignored the tendrils of dread starting to tighten in his chest, and headed back in, toward the staircase.

When he saw Malia, sitting on a step about halfway up, relief hit him like a physical blow. There were still a bunch of questions to be answered, however, before he really calmed down. He’d passed the stairs on his way inside; she hadn’t been there.

“Hey, sweetness.” Getting a better look at his daughter, Stiles started upstairs slowly. She was folded up small, with her butt on the step and her knees bent nearly into her chest. She had Clementine the wolf, her Valentine’s gift from Peter, wrapped up tightly in her arms, with her nose buried in the toy’s brown fur.

Sidling up carefully, Stiles perched his ass on the step beside Malia, and laid a hand on the hunched curve of her back. She leaned into him, and the sad little whimper eking out of her was more than enough to shatter his heart in his chest.

It took a lot of self-control not to scoop her into his arms, but if she wanted up, Malia had no qualms about crawling on top of her old man. Maybe giving her a little space was best? He had no fucking idea, since he didn’t know what was wrong yet. He needed a cue.

“Hey,” he said again, softer this time. “What’s up, buttercup?”

Malia shook her head, burrowing tighter against his ribs. “No.”

“No?” Not exactly as informative as he’d hoped. Stiles kissed the crown of her head, smothering his anxiety. “Okay. Is Scotty okay, baby?”

“No,” Malia repeated, thick with the threat of tears this time, and pretty much the only thing that kept Stiles’ rapidly blossoming fear in check was the appearance of Melissa, standing at the top of the stairs.

“There you are, Lia.” There was some tightness around Melissa’s eyes, but no grim frown, or blood on her shirt, or whatever other exaggerated horrors Stiles’ brain was busy cooking up. Malia would never really hurt her brother on purpose, but sometimes she forgot her own strength, especially around the moon. Over the years, they’d dealt with some skinned knees and elbows. He trusted his daughter, but she was a little kid; realistically, accidents happened.

“Honey,” Melissa said. “Why don’t you come check on dinner with me? Let your dad talk to Scotty, okay?”

Malia shook her head, clinging to Stiles even harder.

“No!” Now there was no doubt at all that she wanted to get nearer. Stiles widened his arms, sitting back as his daughter muscled her way into his lap, no room for argument. At five, nearly six years old, Malia was already almost as physically strong as her dad. Maybe stronger. They hadn’t tested that in a while.

“Easy, princess.” Cuddling Malia close, with Clementine sandwiched between them, Stiles started slowly rocking his baby girl as he craned his neck to look up at Melissa. “What’s going on?”

“Something happened at school today,” Melissa said quietly, shaking her head as she started down the stairs. “And that’s pretty much all I could get out of them. Scott ran straight to their room when we got home, and he won’t come out. I think Lia might be worked up mostly because her brother’s upset.”

Stiles scooted over to let Melissa get by easier; she squeezed his shoulder as she passed, then stopped a few steps below them.

“What can I do?” she asked, almost businesslike in full crisis nurse-mode, but also totally sincere.

“I don’t know.” Whatever had happened, it hadn’t warranted a call from Fáelán, or even a text from Peter. Stiles was flying blind, for now. “I’m gonna head up there, see if I can figure anything out. If I’m not down by the time Dad gets home, will you let him know what’s going on?”

“You got it.” Melissa reached out, tucking a piece of Malia’s hair behind her ear. The girl didn’t get fussy about the touch, but she didn’t loosen her grip on her dad either.

“Thanks, Mel.” Stiles hauled himself up to stand again, groaning slightly. After all day on his feet, his knees weren’t totally happy about hoisting Malia’s weight, but it wasn’t serious. “I’ll holler if I need backup.”

The twins’ bedroom door was open; Stiles rapped his knuckles against the doorframe.

“Hey there, Scotty.” The boy didn’t move an inch. He was lying on his bed, legs bent, frowning at his own knees. “Lia and I are coming in, okay, buddy?”

Perching himself on the edge of Scott’s mattress, Stiles leaned back against the headboard, with Malia still glued to his chest. Scott’s hair was sticking out at weird angles, thick, dark, and disheveled; Stiles reached out slowly, carding his fingers into it.

Scott allowed the petting for a few seconds, arching into it, before he jerked his head away and squirmed across the mattress. Putting distance between himself and Stiles.

Stiles retracted his hand, surprised. Unlike his sister, Scott wasn’t keen on their usual style of tactile comfort right now, apparently. That was new.

“Okay.” Stiles took a second to reassess, petting Malia’s hair instead. His safest bet might be to treat this like a meltdown, just in case. This whole silent treatment thing was concerning. “Okay Scotty, you’re upset right now, huh? And that’s okay. I’m gonna stay here with you for a while, hang out. And if you decide later that you want to talk, I’m going to be here to listen. We’ve got plenty of time, my man.”

Scott’s backpack was in the middle of the bedroom floor, unzipped. His take-home folder had spilled out of it, splayed open on the carpet, empty. No worksheets or papers at all. Something about that struck Stiles as odd, tickling his instincts.

He didn’t want to push if Scott wasn’t ready to talk, so he didn’t ask. He didn’t pull out his phone to text Peter, either. He kept all his attention in the moment, in the room, focused on his distraught kids.

“You doing okay, Lia?” The girl shook her head, a physical _no_ to match her previous verbal repetitions, then let out a sharp little growl.

“No!” She pushed herself away, sitting back enough to look Stiles in the face. Her eyes were watery, flickering between brown and gold, and her face was screwed up into a furious scowl. “I love Uncle Peter!”

“Uncle Peter loves you too,” Stiles said, without hesitation. He knew that was true, even if he had no idea why Malia sounded so angry about it. “He loves you and Scotty, so much—”

“Mr. Hale is mean!” The first words out of Scott’s mouth were loud and unexpected enough that Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin. “He’s mean, and he _hates_ me—”

“He is _not_!” And now Malia was shouting too, matching her brother’s volume and his rush of unleashed frustration. “He’s not mean, he’s _awesome_ , and you’re being _dumb_ Scotty—”

“I-I’m _not_ —”

“Hey whoa, now!” Peter teased him about his _dad-voice_ sometimes, but Stiles was always a tiny bit shocked when that particular tone actually came out of his mouth. He’d heard his own dad use basically the same one, way too many times: stern and no-nonsense. Not yelling, but serious enough to command attention without raising his voice.

No guarantees it would keep working this easily through their teenage years, but for now, Stiles’ dad-voice was enough to quiet the peanuts.

“Everybody in their corners for a second,” Stiles said, glancing between Malia on his knee and Scott sitting on the bed. Both kids were glaring daggers at each other. “Let’s take a breath. We’re going to talk this out, kiddos, but we’re not going to shout at each other. And Malia—”

“I know I’m not ‘posed to call people dumb,” Malia blurted, all in one long, rushing spiel without a pause. “But Uncle Peter’s _not mean_ , and he didn’t make Scotty mess up his worksheet, it was _All_ —”

Scott’s eyes went as wide as saucers, and his cheeks were stained dark, cherry red. “Shut up, Lia!”

In the blink of an eye, little arms were swinging.

“ _Hey_!” This time, Stiles definitely did raise his voice, and he leapt to his feet at the same time. It was the most efficient way of avoiding the all-out brawl that had been about to happen in the middle of Scott’s bed. His kids had just taken literal swipes at each other, for fucksake.

He tried to get a better hold on Malia, discouraging her squirming, and pointed at Scott with his momentarily free hand.

“Scott Grayson Janusz.” This situation had more than earned the use of full-names, even without the physical violence. Stiles was thunderstruck. “Malia Zelda Claudia. You both know better than that. There’s _no_ hitting.”

Unlike _no ice cream until after dinner_ , or _no blowing bubbles in the house_ , this one was a hard and fast rule. No hitting. _None_. Not for any reason, no matter what.

Scott’s fighting stance deflated, as though his strings had been cut, but he kept the outraged glare. The worst of the tension bled from Malia’s muscles, and she let out a sharp, growly sigh.

“You, get. On your bed.” Crossing the room in a couple of steps, Stiles dropped Malia on her own mattress, peeling himself free. “Peanuts stay on their own sides, Dad referees. Force field, right here, down the middle. No hitting. No name calling. I know you’re both upset, and we’re going to talk this out.”

“Dad—”

“I wasn’t—”

“Nope.” Holding up a quelling hand at each of them, Stiles shook his head. “First things first, my spawn. We all need to hear some apologies.”

Silence. Both kids crossed their arms, chins jutting stubbornly. Almost perfect mirrors of each other. It would’ve been cute, in other circumstances.

“We need apologies for trying to hit,” Stiles prompted, counting off on his fingers. “And shouting at each other, from both of you. And Malia, I want you to say you’re sorry for calling your brother dumb. Neither of you are being very nice at all, to each other, or to me, and I want to understand why you’re so upset. Seriously, what’s the problem here, peanuts?”

More silence. Stiles rubbed at the bridge of his nose, vaguely astonished that the lack of noise could bring on such a headache.

 

* * *

 

Peter picked up the phone on the fourth ring, a few seconds before it would’ve cut to voicemail.

“In my defense,” he said immediately, and he really did sound defensive. All sharp edges. “I marked Malia’s worksheet before I even saw Scott’s.”

“Hello to you too,” Stiles said, burrowing deeper into the warmth of his hoodie and trying to ignore the bite of autumn creeping in. It was late enough that the kids were in bed, hopefully asleep, but he’d still retreated into the backyard before he made this call. “And could you chill out, maybe? After the night I just had, I’m seriously not spoiling for a fight right now. I’m not mad at you.”

More silence, this time through the phone. Fuck that.

“Peter, I’m worried about Scotty.” Looking down at the paper in his hand, Stiles absently smoothed out a few lingering wrinkles from being crumpled in a little fist and shoved under Scott’s bed. “I went over the worksheet with him, and he understands it. He knows this stuff.” The sheet was two-sided: a fill-in-the-blanks game on one page, with letters of the alphabet missing, and a connect the dots picture on the other, where the dots were labelled with letters instead of numbers. Practicing alphabetical order, which was something Scott and Malia had pretty much down-pat before school even started.

Malia’s worksheet, still inside the house on the kitchen counter, was filled out and finished, with only a couple little hiccups that looked as though she’d corrected herself. The connect the dots picture was done, and fully coloured, too. There was a shiny gold star sticker at the top of the page, next to Peter’s precise handwriting: _Great Job Lia!_

Scott’s worksheet, on the other hand, was nearly blank. Peter had left a different note at the top: _Practice and complete at home please_.

“Maybe he couldn’t focus?” Stiles’ stomach was in knots, but damn it, he needed to ask. His sock feet were nearly silent as he paced the back porch. “Do you think it could be ADHD?”

“What?” Peter sounded genuinely surprised by the question. “No. Granted, I’m not a doctor, but no, I don’t think Scott has ADHD. And you’re right; he knows this work, which is why I made the mistake of not watching him closely enough today. I take it the pups weren’t overly forthcoming about details.”

“The pups weren’t forthcoming about shit.” By the time they took a break for dinner, which had been a painfully tense affair, Stiles hadn’t managed to get more than a handful of words out of either of them. Coaxing the worksheet out of hiding, to see the trouble with his own eyes, had been like pulling teeth. “With one minor exception: Scott was very clear that Mr. Hale is a big meanie who hates him, and a poopy head.”

Stiles wasn’t sure what sort of reaction he’d expected. Maybe laughing it off. Peter had to hear that sort of playground stuff all the time.

Evidently, there wasn’t going to be any _laughing it off_ in this instance.

“He thinks I hate him?” Peter made a quiet, distressed noise, that was quickly stifled. Bitten off abruptly, like he hadn’t meant to let it loose at all. “He said that? Damn it. _Damn_ it, I should’ve… Fuck, should I come over? Or would that make things worse? What time is it?”

“It’s past their bedtime,” Stiles said, carefully folding the paper, and slipping it into his pocket. “They’re sleeping already. Babe, c’mon, relax. Scotty knows you love him. He’s just mad. Seriously, did I miss a memo? Why does everybody have the drama cranked up to eleven today?”

The noise this time was less whimper, more growl. “You think I’m being _dramatic_?”

“Uh, yeah? Pretty much all the time. You’re sort of an enormous ham, and I love you anyway. But right now, I really just want to know what the hell is going on with my kid. Comprende?”

“Scott’s getting distracted in class,” Peter said, after a weighty pause that definitely meant the _enormous ham_ comment was being shelved for later. Yeah, not dramatic at all. “Not symptomatically distracted. There’s a specific reason. Ally.”

“The new kid?” Not that new anymore, really; Stiles had been hearing about her for weeks. “She’s distracting? How? What’s happening here? And by the way, why haven’t I seen this kid yet? Not one time, with my own eyes. I was starting to think Scott made her up.”

“Scott’s _smitten_.” By the tone Peter’s voice, the word tasted bad in his mouth. “I thought it would’ve passed by now. They’re kindergartners; daydreaming is normal, and Scott’s certainly not the only one with wandering attention. Usually, it only takes a reminder to get him back on task, but the distraction is getting more frequent now, and less benign. And you haven’t seen Ally, because her parents can’t wait to get her the hell away from Fáelán at the end of the day. She’s always the first out the door.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yes, well. They’re weird people.” Peter’s laugh was bone dry. “They don’t like me very much. Shocking, I know. But the feeling is entirely mutual. It’s nothing short of amazing that those two managed to raise such a darling girl.” The idea that Peter wasn’t popular with some parents wasn’t exactly news. _Smug and sarcastic_ didn’t work for everybody the way it worked for Stiles.

“What happened today was largely my fault,” Peter continued. “Day before a full moon, most students in my class need more supervision to keep on task, especially this early in the year. I was distracted too, admittedly, dealing with some of the other kids, and didn’t notice Scott and Ally weren’t doing their work. I’ve already changed the seating arrangement again, and I’ll be keeping a closer eye on them until I’m confident this is resolved. This incident won’t be repeated.”

“Wow,” Stiles said. “You handling after school theatre now too, Mr. Hale? ‘Cause that sounded rehearsed.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” Peter exhaled, long and weary. “I already got an earful from Ally’s parents today, and I’ve got Talia riding my ass, to make sure I stay _diplomatic_ enough.”

“Diplomatic, huh?” Something about that felt strange. Stiles was getting curiouser by the minute. “Who are these people? Ally’s parents, I mean.”

“It’s complicated. Pack business.” When Stiles snorted, unimpressed and a little peeved, Peter pushed on. “I know, I know. But I warned you, and you still signed on for this kind of crap, remember? Basically, we’ve got a new Omega in the territory, and big sis is insistent that I play nice. And that’s all I can say about it. In fact, do me a favour and pretend I didn’t even say that much.”

“Yeah, fine. My lips are sealed.” As immensely annoying as _Pack business_ could be, Stiles hadn’t gone into this blind. He accepted that this sort of bullshit was a reality of dating Peter Hale, and as much as he might want to push, he wasn’t going to get the dude in trouble with his Alpha on purpose. “But maybe I should meet them. Parent-to-parent.”

“Normally, I could set that up,” Peter said. “But, in this case, you really ought to go through Alan. I’d rather not deal with accusations of favouritism or anything like that.”

“Aw, babe. You saying I’m your favourite? That’s so sweet.”

“My favourite obnoxious pain in the ass. Hobbes is heartbroken you usurped his title.”

“Tell the hairy little hobgoblin we can share,” Stiles said, grinning. “Take turns, annoy you in shifts. And nah, don’t think I’m gonna get too formal, with the Alan thing. Might just show up a little earlier to pick up the twins after school, one day next week. Spontaneous meet and greet.”

“Sounds like an ambush.” Peter didn’t seem to be complaining. “I love it. If anyone asks, I knew nothing about this.”

“Nothing about what? I’m going rogue. My innocent, unsuspecting, and incredibly handsome boyfriend was totally in the dark, the whole time. I managed to avoid suspicion by distracting him with my wily ways and fine ass.”

“I adore you,” Peter said, emphatically.

“Well, duh.” Stiles shoved his free hand into the pocket of his hoodie. Scott’s worksheet crinkled against his knuckles, reminding him. “I might be dating a big, mean poopyhead, but I’m a delight.”

The gibe was teasing, playful, but also a test. And the conspicuous lack of witty comeback was a pretty clear indication that certain things hadn’t been settled yet.

“Okay, yes, I may have overreacted earlier,” Peter admitted, after moment of hesitation. “A little. I know, kids can say pretty harsh things in the heat of the moment, especially when they’re worked up. But it’s still bothering me, that he could ever think I hate him. Honestly? I’d rather he say _he_ hates _me_. That, I can deal with.”

“Yeah, but both options are equally bullshit,” Stiles said. “Scotty knows you love him, and he loves you too. My kids staked a claim on you, Cujo. No take-backs, no returns or exchanges. Search your feelings, babe. You know it to be true.”

“Thanks, Darth Dad.” At least Peter sounded grudgingly amused now. Stiles counted that as a victory. “You’re wearing your Vader shirt right now, aren’t you?”

“Damn right I am.”


	34. Operation Ambush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to mention before you read this chapter, that our Chris and Victoria look a little different than canon, for two reasons. First, they’re a tiny bit younger in this AU (in their mid-thirties, compared to probably late-thirties/mid-forties). More importantly, though, they’ve been in hiding for a while. Their lifestyle is different than in canon-- they don't have access to the same resources and funds. They’ve altered the style of their clothing/hair/etc several times over the last five years, to try and avoid being easily recognized. For example, Victoria’s been rocking a blond bob for a while, but now that they’ve moved to BH, she’s cut and dyed it again (TW canon short, but brown like Ally’s instead of red). Chris wears fake glasses sometimes. I felt I should let you know ahead of time, because I didn’t want their descriptions to be confusing.

Stiles doubled checked the guest parking pass hanging from his rearview mirror, then exhaled into his palm and sniffed. Good breath. Parking pass was valid, and visible. In dark chinos and a clean t-shirt— no logos, stains, or puns— he looked like a relatively normal, reasonably mature adult-person.

Fuck, this felt weirdly like a job interview. Or a date.

Or maybe the calm before the storm. Peter had said the Bergiers were assholes.

 _Victoria and Chris Bergier_. The last name was familiar, oddly enough. Stiles had built a website for _Bergier Security Technologies_ a few months back— a private small arms dealership and security company based out of Louisiana— but a bit of hardcore googling over the weekend hadn’t turned up any obvious connections there. No Chris or Victoria on the payroll, as far as he found.

Over the course of the website build, he’d developed a pretty good relationship with BST, and even after the site went live, they’d decided to keep him on retainer for maintenance and support. Working with them was generally awesome, and he certainly wasn’t going to turn down the ongoing, regular paycheque, but he couldn’t exactly send them an email out of the blue, checking if they were any relation to the couple he was about to ambush. It’d be weird, and unprofessional, and Danny would probably murder him and make it look like a really embarrassing accident.

He’d actually considered giving Danny a call, when his preliminary sleuthing into the _other_ Bergiers, Chris and Victoria, resulted in suspiciously skimpy returns. Stiles had picked up some skills of his own over the years, a little cyber security and hacking here and there, but he didn't delude himself that he was anywhere near Danny’s level.

But getting Danny involved, even in the tiniest bit of harmless snooping, would mean dealing with _The Disappointed Danny Sigh_. The dude was so fussy about keeping his nose clean now that he had his fancy Silicone Valley job, and more than willing to dredge up ancient history. As if reminding Stiles of the awesome shit they used to get up to was somehow supposed to dissuade him.

Okay, sure, they may have gotten quasi-arrested a couple of times in high school, but no official charges were ever filed, and it was all for a good cause. Ferreting out some receipts, anonymously exposing the nastier secrets of a couple anti-shifter politicians and lawmakers— it was all shit the media should’ve been doing anyway.

Admittedly, trying to low-key cyberstalk other kindergarten parents probably wasn’t on quite the same moral level as raking bigots over the coals. Although, Danny had lent a hand during Stiles’ initial investigation into Peter as a potential teacher for the kids, nearly a year ago. He'd complained, but he'd done it. The precedent was there, sort of.

In the end, Stiles had resigned himself to keeping Danny in the dark this time, even if it meant he had way less info going into this meeting than he preferred. Because Chris and Victoria Bergier? Might as well have been freaking Amish people, considering the scarcity of their online presence.

Finding almost nothing about them was way more suspicious than finding something weird. And it was way more frustrating, too.

“You realise this is fucking nuts, right?” Sprawled like a big, lazy cat in the passenger seat of the Kia, Jackson glanced up from his phone, fixing Stiles with a bland look over the top of his overpriced sunglasses. “As your lawyer, I’m obligated to tell you this is psychotic. And the longer we sit here, looking like pedophiles, the worse it gets.”

“Shush.” Dragging Jackson along on this excursion had been a last minute decision. Stiles hadn’t decided if he regretted it or not. “We should go inside. They’re less likely to spot us if we wait in the lobby, and I don’t want to spook them. This’ll get weird if they start thinking we’re stalking them, or whatever.”

“ _Get_ weird. That’s cute.” Jackson slipped his cell into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Let’s get this over with. Move your ass.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait, hang on—” But Stiles was already alone, the passenger door shutting hard and drowning out his objections.

Stiles swore under his breath, grabbing a shopping bag from the back seat and scrambling out of the car. He’d badgered Jackson into ducking out early from work and meeting him here, straight from the office; the dude was still in a suit and tie, looking intimidatingly slick. Which was at least partially the point of bringing him along. Plus, Jackson might take immense pleasure busting Stiles’ balls, but he wouldn’t actually try to stop the proceedings, like Lydia probably would’ve.

“Okay.” Stiles raked a hand through his hair, smoothing it down. “When we get in there, just act natural.” Jackson’s only response was a scoff; he strode past Stiles, and his own Porsche Cayenne parked beside the Kia, and headed toward Fáelán’s main doors.

After spending almost a half-hour waiting in the parking lot, they were still over twenty minutes early to pick up the kids. It should’ve been plenty of time, and they hadn’t seen anybody entering the school the entire time they’d been sitting there, but the lobby wasn’t quite as deserted as Stiles had expected.

There was a guy loitering just inside the doors, standing there with his arms crossed, staring out through the wide windows. He had a visitor’s pass clipped to his khaki green jacket, and a firm, no-nonsense set to his jaw.

Stiles flashed the guy a friendly smile. In return, he got a flicker of starkly pale eyes behind a pair of wire frame glasses, and a small nod of acknowledgement. The vibe was distinctly aloof, but not distracted. More scrutinizing than anything.

Jackson was already in the office, saying hi to reception. Stiles wasted no time joining him, trying to shake off the unnerving sensation of being dissected by a single glance.

“Hey hey.” Stiles greeted the two women working in the main office with a little salute, setting the plastic shopping bag up on the front desk. Alan’s office door was shut, which likely meant the Headmaster was out, or very busy. Either way, it meant Stiles didn’t have to play it cool under Alan’s far too perceptive attention. Bonus. “Sorry for siccing Mr. Armani here on you without warning. I know he gives Sylvia palpitations.”

Sylvia immediately hid her giggles behind a file folder, and Jackson preened shamelessly about getting the staff all twitterpated with that damn thousand-watt smile. Business as usual.

“Stiles,” Vivienne said, pointing to the slouchy plastic bag without getting out of her office chair. “Early birthday surprise for your man?”

“This? Nah.” Giving the bag a quick pat, Stiles flashed a smile of his own. Less toothy, and way goofier than Jackson. He’d learned to play to his strengths. “This, my dear Ms. Takeda, is a paltry offering to the greatest office admins on the planet. Fun-sized bars— the good ones, with the Reeses. Better stash ‘em before the pups sniff them out, though. Or Peter.”

The reminder that Peter’s birthday was coming up wasn’t unexpected. Stiles had some plans in motion, but nothing he was willing to spill here. Not in Fáelán, when his hellishly devious boyfriend probably had ears everywhere.

Plus, most of his plans weren’t exactly elementary school appropriate.

“So, who’s Doom-and-Gloom in the lobby?” Stiles asked, as casually as possible, while Sylvia snatched up the mini candy bars and started tearing into a couple of them. “About yay tall, looks like he’d sprain something if he cracked a smile. Or is he just a really realistic Halloween decoration?”

“That’s Mr. Bergier,” Vivienne said, suddenly sounding weary and just a touch exasperated. She didn’t even look out to check who he meant.

 _Bingo_.

 

* * *

 

“Hey.” Sidling up next to the guy, not creepily close, Stiles slapped on his most charming grin. Mr. Bergier turned away from the windows, ever so slightly, and his expression didn’t change. Still perfectly neutral, edging toward stiff. Cutting to the chase seemed the best bet. “You’re Ally’s dad, right?”

Neutral veered sharply into dangerous, as Bergier’s face hardened to a stony mask. Cold enough that Stiles actually felt a chill, and very nearly took a step back.

 _Nearly_. Even if he didn’t have Jackson waiting in the wings, pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping from the other side of the lobby, Stiles wasn’t about to back down. Not when this was about his kids.

“And you are?” Bergier said, though it sounded more like an accusation than a question. It didn’t escape Stiles’ notice that the dude didn’t actually offer an answer of his own.

Well, Peter had warned him that the Bergiers were assholes. Taking a bracing breath through his nose, Stiles kept his own demeanor as sunny as possible. He worked retail; no fucking way was this douchebag getting under his skin so easily.

“Just a fellow kindergarten parent and munchkin wrangler.” Extending a hand to shake, Stiles wasn’t terribly surprised when Bergier didn’t automatically reach out to take it. “Good to meet you, man. I’m Scott’s dad, Sti—”

“ _Scott_ ,” Bergier growled, and immediately, Stiles hackles started rising. Nobody was allowed to say his kid’s name like it was a dirty word. “The boy who’s been harassing my daughter in class? You’re his father?”

“Whoa! Hang the eff on, buddy.” Even as riled up as he was quickly becoming, Stiles was still careful not to curse on school grounds. Policing his language didn’t mean he had to play nice, though. “Listen, my kid was going to class, great behaviour, no troubles at all, for three freaking weeks before your daughter swanned in there. And now suddenly I’m getting calls from his teacher. So, let’s ease up on the blame game, huh? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, maybe my kid’s the one being _harassed_ —”

“You’re kidding.” The curl of Bergier’s lip was somewhere between a sneer and a snarl. The guy wasn’t tall, but Stiles had been around cops and military all his life. Bergier squared off with intent and no wasted peacocking; not a dude to be fucked with. Imposing in a way that didn’t need size to back it up. “I know my daughter. Ally isn’t a troublemaker—”

“Neither is Scott!”

“Hey, easy. Keep it down.” Jackson appeared at his elbow, having abandoned his seat beside the office. His hand closed over Stiles’ shoulder, holding him tightly but not pulling him away. “Do we have a problem here?”

The last part was directed at Bergier, and the guy didn’t look any more impressed by Jackson, despite the sharp suit and flawless hair.

“Yeah. Sergeant Sourpuss, over here,” Stiles said, jerking a thumb toward Bergier. “Is trying to play like this thing’s all Scotty’s fault. Like it’s not a kiddie crush, going both ways. Y’know, like their _teacher_ says it is.”

“My daughter’s trying to fit into a new class,” Bergier said, scowl firmly in place, as if the sourpuss really had been sucking on a lemon. “A new school, and now you’re trying to excuse your son’s pigtail pulling? What is this, _boys will be boys_? If that’s your attitude, it’s not hard to see where Scott gets it.”

“Oh, you did _not_ just—” Fury rose up like a tide, and Stiles’ vision narrowed. Jackson’s other arm darted around, palm pressed to Stiles’ chest, preventing him from moving forward. “You don’t even know me, or my kids, so how about you step off. And while you’re at it, you can shove your smug, sanctimonious judgments up your smug, sanctimonious—”

A beeping sounded through the school’s intercom speakers, loud enough to be noticeable but not shrill and deafening like Stiles remembered from when he’d been in grade school. It was the bell, announcing the end of the day.

“We’re at school,” Jackson warned, outwardly calm. Stiles could tell he was pissed, nearly gritting his teeth, but to someone who didn’t know him, Jackson’s court-face was flawlessly composed. “And this conversation is over. If Mr. Bergier has any concrete grievances, beyond vague accusations and conjecture, he can go through the proper channels and bring them to school administration.”

The school was already coming alive around them; the murmur of excited little voices and the squeaking of sneakers was beginning far down the corridors, drawing closer. Peter would be coming out shortly, with his train of ducklings all paired up and holding hands. He’d lead them outside, and make sure everybody got to their drives safely.

His boyfriend always made a freaking adorable Mama Duck at the head of that parade, but Stiles was too livid at the moment to really enjoy the anticipation.

“If Hale can’t keep his classroom under control,” Bergier said. “You can bet I will be taking this higher. I was guaranteed a safe learning environment, not a circus.”

At the very last second, Stiles managed not to blurt anything along the lines of: _Peter was right_. Because yeah, Bergier was clearly a Grade-A asshole, no doubt. But it wasn’t fair to drag Peter into this, further souring his relationship with other parents, when the dude had a job to do and a certain amount of professionalism to maintain.

“Mr. Hale’s performance reviews speak for themselves, consistently,” Jackson said, sharp as a razor, while Stiles bit his lip and reminded himself why it was a terrible idea to lay verbal waste to this bag of dicks. “Otherwise, my son wouldn’t be in his classroom. While your combative, and frankly unreasonable reaction here speaks to something else entirely, Mr. Bergier. And again, this conversation is over.”

This, right here, was _Jackson Whittemore, Attorney at Law_. But it was also _Uncle Jax_ , totally ready to throw the fuck down for Stiles’ kids.

“Yeah, we’re done,” Stiles said, letting Jackson manhandle him away. Over his shoulder, he threw Bergier a profoundly sarcastic: “Have a great day!”

“Walk,” Jackson said, basically dragging him across the lobby by the arm. “You know, usually, I can completely empathise with people wanting to strangle you. But _that_ guy. I don’t even know what that was.” A growl rumbled in the back of Jackson’s throat, and his eyes blazed gold for a split second.

“You know me, man.” Prying himself out of Jackson’s hold, Stiles shook off the worst of the tension before the kids came out. He didn’t turn back, not even for the quickest glance at Bergier. “Always making friends. It’s all part of my charm.”

A few older kids started trickling out of the mouth of the left hallway, chatting and laughing. The right hallway led to the younger grades, including kindergarten, so that was the focus of Stiles’ attention. Which was why he saw Olivia before she saw him.

What the hell?

“Liv? Hey, Olivia!” Stiles had only Skyped with the woman a handful of times, so he could’ve been mistaken. Her hair was different, much shorter and darker than the last time they’d talked. But her head whipped in his direction the second he called her name and yeah, he knew that face. That was definitely Olivia Bergier, striding around the corner and into the lobby.

When she registered that he was the one who’d spoken, recognition took a split second, but it was blatantly obvious when it swept over her. Tension, setting her spine rigid and her legs braced, drained out of her in a visible rush.

“Stiles?” She looked absolutely shocked, which Stiles could definitely understand. Then, quick as lightning, her wide eyes narrowed, darting from Stiles to Jackson and back again. She was just barely inside the lobby, and she shifted closer to the wall, not making any move to bridge the eight feet or so between them. “Why— What are you doing here?”

There was a little girl, probably Malia’s age, with long, dark brown hair and searingly bright magenta tights under her floral skirt. The kid was pressed up close to Olivia’s legs, and they were holding hands.

“I’m picking up my kids.” Stiles twiddled his fingers at the girl. “Same as you, I guess? Hey there.”

“Hi,” the girl said, smiling shyly, and _holy shit_ those dimples were approaching Danny levels of cuteness.

“I didn’t know you had children,” Olivia said, in a tone that sounded wary, almost mistrustful.

“I didn’t know you did either.” Stiles shrugged, trying to play it cool as the pieces of this puzzle started to click together in his brain. As far as coincidences went, this one was pretty bizarre. “So hey, weird question, maybe super personal, but I thought your husband’s name was Marc?”

Divorce was one possible explanation for the wildly unpleasant dude currently getting his bad vibes all over the far corner of the lobby, but Peter had called Ally’s parents _Chris and Victoria_. No Marc, and no Olivia, either.

“Vic?” Speak of the devil. Chris was suddenly closing in, giving Stiles and Jackson a wide berth as he stalked over to stand beside Olivia and the girl. Or, _Victoria and Ally_ , apparently. “Everything alright?”

This was seriously weird as hell. Stiles’ head was spinning. The bunches of children racing past, all bright colours and chattering, weren’t exactly helping him focus.

“We’re fine,” Olivia, _Victoria_ , said, before turning her attention back to Stiles. “I’m sorry, Stiles, I’m just… This is very unexpected. You have children at Fáelán?”

“Stiles?” Chris repeated, flustered, and Stiles winked at him before he could think better of it. Not exactly a common name, and while Olivia had always been his primary contact, Stiles had dealt with Marc Bergier several times via email; the dude knew his name. If Chris hadn’t gone directly for his throat a minute ago, maybe they could have exchanged proper introductions before, and _maybe_ some of the hostility might’ve been dialled down.

“Yeah, twins,” Stiles said to Victoria, plowing through Chris’ question without volunteering an explanation. “Malia and Scott. They’re in kindergarten.”

Stiles then had the distinct pleasure of watching Ally’s little face light up, as if he’d just offered her unlimited ice cream, a puppy, and no bedtimes forever.

“Scotty!” Her deep brown eyes were sparkling when she said his son’s name. The sweet, unfettered joy was pretty infectious, even if everything else about this mess was immensely awkward. “Scotty’s my friend, and he’s the nicest _ever_ , and sometimes he braids my hair at recess, and it’s so pretty! And, um, and Lia’s really brave, and she knows _everything_ about dinosaurs and sharks, and she can climb higher than anybody.”

“Sounds like my kiddos, alright,” Stiles said, shuffling a little closer and dropping into a squat to get down to the kid’s level. “Now, let me guess. Super smart, sweet as sugar, with amazing princess hair. You must be Ally.”

The girl giggled, nodding as she hid her face in the thigh of her mother’s dark jeans.

“It’s great to meet you, Ally. I’m Scotty and Lia’s dad.” Stiles cocked a thumb back toward where Jackson was hovering, a couple of steps back. “And this guy is Isaac’s dad. We’re a dashing dad duo, today.”

“You’re _Scott’s_ father?” Victoria asked, while at the same time, Chris blurted: “You’re _Stiles_? Stiles Stilinski? Our web guy?”

“Yep,” Stiles said, popping the _p,_ and rose out of his crouch. “All of the above. Hola, Bergiers. Fancy meeting you here.”

Of course, that was the moment when Peter and his crew came around the corner. The look on Peter’s face immediately went from smiling kindergarten commander to devilishly delighted douchebag, before his expression dialled back down to subtler amusement.

“Speaking of my spawn,” Stiles said. “Hey there, Mr. Hale. I can take a couple of those pups off your hands, if you want. Maybe that one, with the curls and the green shirt. He’s pretty cute, and I bet he eats his sandwich crusts, too.”

“I wish,” Jackson muttered, while Isaac beamed under the attention. He had his elbow linked with a classmate Stiles sort of recognised, but couldn’t immediately remember the kid’s name. Malia was a few kids farther back in line, buddied with Cora. Scott was up front, with his hand folded in Peter’s, but the boy only had eyes for Ally now that she was in range again. Big, gooey heart-eyes.

Shit, this really was a crush. Stiles felt a pang of recognition and self-directed embarrassment. He would bet money that he’d looked at Lydia the same way, back in the day. He was never bold enough to ask Lydia if he could braid her hair on the playground, though.

“Mr. Stilinski.” Peter tipped his head briefly. “Mr. Martin-Whittemore. Okay: Isaac, Malia, Scott, to your dads. Cora and Lorilee, buddy up.”

Kids shuffled around as directed, then Stiles was being barrelled into by an enthusiastic Malia, not quite hard enough to knock him over. Scott was more subdued, slinking back behind Stiles’ legs and peeking around.

“Great job today, pups,” Peter said, including Ally in the sweep of his smile. “I’ll see the four of you tomorrow.”

There was a chorus of _bye, Mr. Hale_ , and then Peter was leading the rest of his kids away, headed toward the doors.

“I think,” Victoria said once they were relatively alone again. Her tone was perfectly neutral. “That we have some things to discuss, Stiles. Preferably somewhere more private.”

“Yeah.” Stiles nodded, cutting a brief glance at Chris. “I’d say so. Coffee, maybe?” They’d already exchanged cell numbers ages ago, for the rare work related call or occasional text, so it wouldn’t be hard to set something up.

Considering the train wreck conversation he’d just had with Chris— who, he couldn’t forget, was one of his clients, his _best clients_ — coffee seemed like the safest, least confrontational option. Because fuck no, he wasn’t apologising for anything that just went down. They’d have to move on from here, as is, and Stiles wasn’t above burning a working relationship to the ground if things went south again. If the Bergiers really were unmitigated, unreasonable assholes, he’d have to cut them loose. Nobody, and that included his clients, got a free pass to shit all over his kids.

And there was also the alias thing. Or different names, anyway. Olivia and Marc, Victoria and Chris… The reason for the change wasn’t any of his business, really, but Stiles couldn’t help his curiosity.

“Yes,” Victoria said, stroking Ally’s hair with one hand. “Coffee sounds fine.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re going to text me later,” Jackson said, shutting his car door after getting Isaac secured in the car seat. “And explain what just happened.”

“Yep.” Stiles was leaning bodily into the back seat of the Kia, double-checking the straps on the twins’ seats. Any conversation about the Bergiers would be best without an audience of tiny ears and blabby mouths. “Comfy, peanuts? Ready to roll out?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, dad.”

“Awesome possum.” He ruffled Scott’s hair on the way out, then closed the door over the resulting yelp of protest and Malia’s giggling. He shrugged at Jackson. “But honestly, man? I’m not exactly clear on the details, either. I mean, I had zero idea that Ally’s parents were my clients. This is nuts.”

“Yeah, I said that before you even went in.” Jackson shook his head, reaching out to squeeze Stiles’ shoulder. “Not shocking, considering I’m always right. You good?”

After Jackson told his former Alpha to go fuck himself and gone Omega, the dude had gotten way clingier than usual, more physical. Stiles hadn’t had the heart to tease him about it. Not much, anyway.

Months later, the Team Stilinski PDA still hadn’t really faded back to prior levels.

“I’m always good,” Stiles said, and clapped Jackson’s ribs. “Oh, and if my contract gets axed for this, I expect some stellar legal representation. Hey, you know, it might be worth things going to crap just to see you get all lawyer-y again. Hitting them with _all you’ve got is vague accusations and conjecture_ , and _this conversation is over_.” He waggled his eyebrows, ignoring the flat look being levelled his way. Whatever; his Jackson impression was flawless. “Seriously, dude. Talk lawspeak to me. Super hot.”

“Obviously,” Jackson drawled, while his face said just as clearly: _you’re a fucking idiot_. The hand casually brushing up the side of Stiles’ neck, scent marking, said: _you’re one of **my** fucking idiots_.

“Love you too, Jax.”

 

* * *

 

“Dad?” They were nearly home when, in a lull between songs, Scott spoke up. A glance in the rearview confirmed the little dude had furrowed eyebrows to match the concern in his tone.

Stiles turned the radio down to a low murmur. “Yeah, buddy?”

“D’you think…” Scott squirmed in his car seat, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. “It’s Uncle Peter’s birthday soon, right?”

“Right.” October 27th, which was coming up quickly. “This weekend.”

“How old is he gonna be?” Malia asked, before Scott could continue articulating whatever problem had him looking so thoughtful.

“Hit me with some guesses,” Stiles replied, instead of answering right away. If he distracted the kids for a few more minutes, he’d could probably talk to Scott alone, which might be best. “How old do you think he’s gonna be?”

“Um.” Malia seemed to mull that for a few seconds, gnawing her bottom lip. “How old are you, Dad?”

“Your old man’s twenty-seven, peanuts.” Malia made a noise of surprise and awe, which went a long way toward making Stiles feel ancient. “I’ll give you another hint: Uncle Peter’s older than me.”

“ _Wow_.” The next words out of his daughter’s mouth were absolute perfection. “Is he older than Grandpa?”

It took a lot of self-control not to burst out laughing, but Malia sounded so sincere. So innocently curious, and eager to know. Stiles held back, swallowing the worst of the hilarity.

“No,” he managed, after a second or two trying not to choke to death. He cleared his throat. “No, baby, Peter’s not older than Grandpa. Although you should definitely tell Grandpa you asked, ‘cause he’ll love that.” Telling Peter about this conversation wouldn’t be quite so well-received, but still, _hilarious_. Stiles had a couple of promising ideas how he could soothe his boyfriend’s stinging pride, afterward.

“Grandpa,” Stiles said, pulling into their driveway. “Is… fifty-two, I think. Fifty-one? No, yeah. Last birthday was fifty-two. And Uncle Peter’s gonna be thirty-four on Sunday.”

“That’s _a lot_ ,” Malia said, and Stiles pinched his mouth shut over a squeak of laughter. He needed to keep it together. “Me and Scotty are gonna be six soon. When was Uncle Peter six? How’d he teach kindergarten then? Was he little? Who reached the tall shelves if Uncle Peter was little? ‘Cause we’re not allowed climbing inside.”

“Whoa, princess.” Stiles held up a hand when Malia paused for breath. “Easy. Four questions, five fingers. Let’s count ‘em down. Uncle Peter was six twenty-eight years ago.” Which meant when Peter was the twins’ age, Stiles hadn’t even been born. The age gap between them wasn’t enormous, but he’d never thought of it in terms like that before.

“One,” Malia said, and Scott echoed an instant later, finally getting in on the action. Stiles curled his thumb in toward his palm, signalling the first question gone.

“He didn’t teach kindergarten when he was six,” Stiles said. “He was probably _in_ kindergarten, just like you guys, but with a different teacher, and a different class. Maybe even First Grade.” It would’ve been before the Anagnorisis, too. If Peter was in public school at the time, he would’ve been taught to hide his nature. A six-year-old werewolf, with lessons already drilled into his head about the importance of keeping quiet, keeping things secret, and keeping complete control. About the grave consequences if he messed up.

That was an awful lot of bullshit and stress to pile on a little kid.

“Two!” Stiles shook his head, forcing his mind back into the present. He lowered his pointer finger, and recalled the next question in Malia’s torrent. _Was he little?_

“Yes, he was little.” A slightly evil, but potentially amazing thought occurred to him. “And I bet if you ask nicely, Bethany might be able to find some pictures of Peter when he was a kid. That’d be cool, huh?”

“Oh, yeah!” Malia whooped with joy. “Let’s ask now! Can we, dad?”

“Not ‘til after dinner.” Stiles waggled his hand. “Beth’s at work, and you still have more questions to count down. C’mon.”

“Three,” Scott said, and Malia hummed her agreement. “That’s three, right Dad?”

“Right-o, kiddos. Last one’s about the shelves, right? I’m gonna guess that his teacher reached the high shelves, when Peter was little. Just like Peter reaches stuff for you munchkins now. Okay, how many’s that?”

“Four!”

“Holy _cow_ , my kids are geniuses. Super smart, both of you.” Unbuckling his belt, Stiles started getting out of the car. “Okay, brainiacs. Grab your gear. You know the drill: shoes and backpacks in the closet, then wash your hands. With _soap_.”

He pulled open the back door, letting the kids scramble out. Before Scott could get too far, he snagged the boy gently by the hood.

“Hold up, Scotty.” Malia stopped too, but Stiles nodded toward the garage door. “Go on, head in, sweetness. I wanna talk to your brother for just a sec. It’s nothing bad.”

The girl hesitated, and took Scott’s hand when he stretched out his arm toward her. Neither kid spoke, but after a moment of eye contact, Malia darted forward and smacked a kiss against her brother’s cheek.

“‘Kay,” she said, then dashed into the house without another word.

Over the years, Stiles had gotten used to his kids’ secret communication. It was pretty baffling, but not surprising anymore. They’d babbled to each other in some kind of weird twin-code when they were first learning to speak— _cryptophasia_ , according to his research, which was fairly normal for twins— and even now they tended to have whole conversations with just a couple of glances.

“I think you were going to ask me something,” Stiles said, once Malia shut the door behind herself. If she wanted to eavesdrop, he couldn’t really stop her. “About Uncle Peter’s birthday?”

“Yeah.” Scott adjusted his backpack, while Stiles squatted down and leaned against the car. “Dad, d’you think if maybe I gave Uncle Peter a really cool thing for his birthday, he’d let me sit with Ally again? I promise I’ll be good, and do my worksheets, and I won’t be chatty when Mr. Hale is talking or when it’s quiet time, I _promise_.”

Oh, shit.

“Scotty—” Stiles sighed, reaching out and laying hands on his son’s narrow shoulders. Scott’s cheeks were pink, and he was so earnest about this, his eyes had welled up, gleaming wetly. “You remember on the weekend, when we all went to the park? Me and Lia fed the ducks, while you and Peter went for a walk. You guys had a talk, right?”

After a pause, Scott nodded. His flush got darker, and the jut of his bottom lip was getting wobbly.

“Uncle Pete—” A dangerously wet hiccup interrupted Scott’s quiet words, and he scrubbed his nose with his balled up fist before continuing. “Uncle Peter said he’s try’na help me do good, and learn. And he wants Ally to learn stuff too. He said it’s okay to be friends, and play at recess and lunch and stuff, but we gotta pay attention in class. He said me and Ally gotta sit with other kids for a while, but it’s been _forever_ already. Forever is a while!”

It’d been two days, not counting the long weekend, but Stiles didn’t bother pointing that out. “What else did Uncle Peter say, buddy?”

A frustrated whine eked out of Scott’s throat, sounding almost lupine.

“He said…” Scuffing his foot against the garage floor, Scott stared down at the toes of his sneakers. His voice was quieter as he continued, almost hushed. “Uncle Peter said he loves me and Lia, with his whole heart. And he never-ever wants to make us sad.”

“Did he say he loves you to the moon and back, Scotty?”

“Uh-huh.” Of course he did. Because Stiles’ boyfriend was an enormous, sappy nerd, but Stiles refused to get misty about it right now. Totally _refused_. “But Uncle Peter said sometimes we gotta do stuff that’s no fun, because. Like how I gotta get shots sometimes, so I don’t get sick. And like how Derek thinks veggies feel weird, but sometimes he has carrots and stuff now. ‘Cause veggies are good for you.”

“And Peter has to get you and Ally to sit with other people for a while,” Stiles said. “Even though he knows you don’t like it. Because school is important, right? It’s good for you, like veggies.”

“It doesn’t feel good,” Scott said, soft and small. Stiles’ heart clenched.

“I know, buddy.” He cupped his son’s cheek. “But even when you’re not sitting with each other, you can still play with Ally at lunch, and at recess, and—” Fuck, his kid looked so _sad_. That was the only excuse for the next thing that came tumbling out of Stiles’ mouth. “And maybe I’ll ask Ally’s mom and dad if you guys can play after school sometime, okay?”

Like the sun breaking through the darkest clouds, euphoria bloomed across Scott’s face.

“Really, Dad? Really really?”

Oh no. Oh _shit_.

A minute or two later, after reassurances and a lot of hugs, Scott was basically skipping into the house to wash up, still grinning a mile wide. Stiles stood up, but stayed leaning against the car. He rubbed one hand over his face, then kept it there, cradling his own stupid fucking head.

He and “Olivia” had been getting along great for months, professionally, but he had no idea what kind of mom Victoria was. And, on top of that, he’d nearly decked Chris Bergier earlier that day. Now he had to figure out a way to set up a freaking _playdate_.

“My life,” Stiles muttered, dragging his fingers back through his hair. “My freakin’ life, I swear.”

 

* * *

>  
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _How’d that go, sweetheart?_
> 
> _I’m almost disappointed. Considering what I’ve experienced of the Bergiers’ winning personalities, I expected blood in the lobby._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Oh believe me, it was interesting even w/o gratuitous violence or verbal devastation._
> 
> _Hey did I ever tell u abt these really great web clients? Private security company. Been working w them for like almost a year and they’re freakin fantastic_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _You’re kidding_
> 
> _Stiles tell me you’re kidding_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Nooooope I kid u not_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _You work for them? You seriously fucking work for them??_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I srsly fucking do. I also srsly fucking told Chris to shove his attitude up his ass before I figured out who he was_
> 
> _Yaaaaay! Go me_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Shit_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _It’s all cool babe_
> 
> _I think. I mean they didn’t fire me on the spot? And no termination emails yet_
> 
> _I’m waiting to hear from Victoria. Setting up a coffee date parent chat thing. Cuz we still gotta sort out the Scotty and Ally thing_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’m taking care of it as much as possible in the classroom. You probably don’t need to meet with them, really._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I kinda do tho?_
> 
> _I don’t doubt ur mad skillz for one sec, oh king of the classroom, the kid whisperer, but I’m not dumping this all on u to fix_
> 
> _I’m the dad. When there’s a problem w my kids I gotta take care of it_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I know, baby. You’re a great dad. I just don’t like the thought of you being forced into an awkward position by this._
> 
> _If there’s any way I can make it easier for you, easier for the twins, I want to help._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I know u do and that’s still sort of amazing ngl_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I’m choosing to take your amazement as a compliment._
> 
> _Admittedly, I’m not always the most benevolent person. But you know I’d tear the world apart for you and the twins. I hope that’s not a surprise._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _It’s not a surprise and that’s what so amazing_
> 
> _I’ve been a single dad forever_
> 
> _I wasn’t solo. There’s Lydia, Jax, my dad, Mel. I never thought abt somebody like u tho_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Somebody like me?_
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _U know what I mean. Stop fishing for compliments asshole ;)_
> 
> _A datemate who loves my kids like I do. Never thought I’d get that_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _I never thought I’d get this either._
> 
> _You’re much more than I ever expected. All three of you._
> 
> _And I enjoy taking care of you. Protecting you._
> 
> _It’s a wolf thing._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Don’t u try that “wolf thing” shit w me istg. Ur just a big sap_
> 
> _But ur my big sap and it’s good. Really good_
> 
> _Still not letting u take care of this for me tho_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Ok. The offer stands, but ok._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Thx babe_
> 
> _I’m being summoned by the spawn_
> 
> _Gonna call u later for bedtime stories k??_
> 
> **From Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _Of course._
> 
> **To Cujo Halehound:**
> 
> _< 3_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris’ reaction was pretty harsh, very abruptly. But, there are reasons: he doesn’t like Peter much, and is still on the fence about trusting him to do what’s best for Ally; he’s annoyed that Talia strong-armed them into this blended school, and that there’s already a problem in class. And, he and his family are basically in supernatural witness protection. I mean, he’s literally watching the exit while Victoria waits for Ally outside the classroom. He’s on edge, on guard, and some stranger just walked up and knew who he was. Knew his daughter’s name. He was immediately defensive. Also, in canon, when teenage Scott and Allison skipped school for the day, he was sharp when talking to Melissa.


End file.
